


Bad Penny

by katelusive



Series: the moon, the tower, & the sun. [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, F/M, Friendship, Homophobic Language, Implied Torture, Lots of Sex, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prostitution, Unrequited Love, best friends with communication issues, lots of feelings, secrets secrets are no fun, smoochin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-30
Updated: 2019-02-21
Packaged: 2019-10-19 04:49:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 24,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17594927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katelusive/pseuds/katelusive
Summary: It doesn't count as lying if you're doing it to protect somebody you love.  At least, that's what Bucky keeps telling himself.  But as it turns out, Steve has a few secrets of his own.





	1. Brooklyn

**Author's Note:**

> Buckle up, folks, this is gonna be a long one. I am having an absolute blast researching/writing this, and I hope you guys have just as much fun reading. Feel free to come talk to me on [tumblr](http://kate-lusive.tumblr.com) as I am always 100% down to scream about Bucky's Sad Feelings

> "Truth is like the sun.  You can shut it out for a time, but it ain't goin' away."

\- Elvis Presley

 

Bucky meets David in the alley behind a bar in Crown Heights he can’t afford to drink at. It was supposed to be his last delivery of the day – ten wooden crates of lemons, limes, tomatoes and celery. The truck is long gone, but Bucky’s still out back, chain-smoking.

“Fucking asshole,” he mutters to himself.

It’s the second time in a month he’s been stiffed by the bar’s manager, an oily Russian named Olaf. Gilbert will probably fire him, and then what? He can’t lose this job. He can’t even afford to lose a single cent off his paycheck.

The draft letter he received last week looms over him as high as the Washington monument.

He takes out a new cigarette, searching his pockets for a match.

“Shit.”

A spark in the shadows, and like magic, there’s a silver Zippo in the shadows under his nose.

“Thanks,” he says, leaning into it.

“No problem, kid,” says the owner, offering his hand. “David Hobbes.”

He’s built like a brick shithouse, wearing an expensive, tailored suit. With his deep-set eyes and dark, wavy hair, he could be a Stark.

“James Barnes,” he says, acutely aware of the greasy hair flopping over his brow. “Pleased to meet you, sir.”

David looks amused.

“You don’t have to call me sir.” He pauses, meeting Bucky’s eyes. “Listen, I heard what that asshole said to you in there. It wasn’t right.”

“Yeah, well,” says Bucky, taking a drag. “Not the first time. Might be the last, though.”

“You’ll be held responsible?”

“I’m lucky I didn’t get fired the first time he pulled this shit.”

David cocks his head toward Bucky. Even his five o’clock shadow looks somehow high-end, impossibly classy.

“So you’re a little short on cash?”

“I guess you could say that.”

David’s eyes linger on his for half a second too long, and then trail down Bucky’s body. Bucky holds his chin up, cigarette clenched between his thumb and forefinger. A spark flares in his chest, winding down and down.

He’s heard about things like this, although he’s never personally tried it. It’s a way to make a quick buck, if you’re so inclined. Looking at David’s blue silk tie, Bucky finds that he is very much inclined.

That’s how he finds himself on his knees in the hot, foul-smelling shadows, David’s fingers tight in his hair and cock rammed down his throat. He’s choking but David won’t let go. If anything, the sound of Bucky spluttering seems to get him even harder.

“Breathe through your nose, kid,” he orders.

Bucky’s eyes stream, unable to keep from gagging. David tastes salty, thick and hot. He lets up for half a second, and Bucky sucks in a desperate breath. Despite his best efforts, he keeps thinking about Steve.  

“ _Christ_ ,” grunts David, thrusting all the way to the back of Bucky’s throat. He slumps forward, one hand braced on Bucky’s shoulder. Then his fingers finally loosen up on Bucky’s hair.

Bucky takes a long, deep breath, forehead falling forward, sticky skin-on-skin. After a few seconds, he struggles to his feet, wiping his mouth.

“Not too bad,” says David, eyeing him.

Bucky coughs, running a hand through his wild hair. Steve’s probably wondering where he is.

“What time is it?”

“Just past seven. You got a girl waiting?”

Bucky doesn’t answer, and David grips his upper arm, pressing a crumpled ten-dollar bill into his hand.

“Buy her something nice, kid.”

He walks to the edge of the alley, looking both ways before stepping out onto the sidewalk. Bucky can hear sharp horns, shouts, the murmur of the city being reborn for the night. His fingers clench around the bill, soft and sweaty.

Once he’s around the corner, he stops to stuff it into the breast pocket of his jacket with his emergency nickel and the letter he still hasn’t shown to Steve. It’s the most money he’s ever had at once. Nearly a week’s pay for five minutes of – whatever.

Not a bad trade-off.

He arrives home to find Steve asleep on the ratty armchair with one hand curled up to his mouth. Bucky squats down to see what he’d been working on. It’s a charcoal soldier, dark-smudged features and a tough, fuck-you stance, like one of the comics they used to read together.

Bucky grazes his finger lightly over the soldier’s chest.

The setting sun throws fingers of orange and deep scarlet over Steve’s face. A truck rattles past, horn blaring, and from the sidewalk, somebody yells, “No, fuck _you_ , Miranda!”

Steve stirs, muttering in his sleep.

Something sputters from the kitchen. The stove’s on, overflowing their ancient iron cooking pot, hot steam billowing against his skin. Bucky quickly turns out the flame.

“Lord in heaven, Rogers.”

“That you, Buck?”

Bucky rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, it’s me. You trying to burn down the house again?”

“I’m making rice,” Steve says groggily.

Bucky opens the cabinet, pawing around for the tea tin Steve rarely touches. Quickly, he shoves in the bill from the alley, and then tips the tin onto the top shelf behind the flour.

“That’s past tense, bud. You _were_ making rice, and now you’re lucky we still have a kitchen.”

“Shit, is the stove okay?”

Steve pads barefoot into the kitchen, rumpled and concerned. He winces when he spots the steaming pot in the sink.

“Ah, shit, sorry.”

“I was feeling more like a tomato sandwich, anyway.”

Steve reaches for the pantry and Bucky grabs his thin wrist.

“Whaddaya think you’re doing? Leave dinner to the professional.”

Steve takes a seat at the rickety table, grumbling.

“You ain’t a professional, Barnes, no matter what your girlfriend’s saying.”

“At least I ain’t a fire hazard.”

“Oh, shut up. I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

“I know, pal,” says Bucky, taking a slightly mushy tomato out of the pantry. He cuts off the brown parts before slicing it. “You feeling okay?”

Steve shrugs, one-armed, which means he doesn’t want to talk about it.

“I’ll stop at the pharmacy tomorrow and get you some Vicks.”

“I’m not sick. I don’t need it.”

“Then it can go in the cabinet,” says Bucky reasonably, sandwiching the tomato chunks between slices of Wonder Bread.

“Don’t waste your money, Buck. I’m fine.”

“It’s not a waste.”

Bucky doesn’t leave any room for argument in his tone. He plunks the plate of sandwiches in down in front of Steve.

“Eat up.”

Steve takes one, trying to frown. He doesn’t like it when Bucky bosses him around. But his lips wobble, turning up at the corners.

“Where you been, anyway? Long day?”

“Long as hell.”

“What happened?”

“The usual bullshit,” says Bucky with his mouth full. “What’d you do?”

“Just working on that piece for the paper.”

“The soldier?”

“Nah,” says Steve, reaching for a second sandwich. “That was after I got bored.”

“Self-portrait, Private Rogers?”

“Don’t call me that.”

“You prefer Sergeant?”

Bucky reaches across the table to ruffle Steve’s hair. Steve ducks away, grimacing.

“Lay off, you’re getting your grime on me.”

“Sir, yes sir!”

Bucky salutes Steve with one hand, and stuffs a sandwich in his mouth with the other.

 

*

June drags on, hot and humid. One particularly steamy Friday night, Bucky tries to sneak in a little past three, drunk as hell and half-sick with shame.

“Fuck,” he mutters, stubbing his toe on the crates next to the door.

Steve’s at the table, watching him sternly over the top of a novel.

“I started to think you got run down in the street.”

His face swims in the low light, two Steves, three Steves. They all look mad.

“Why are you still up?”

“Waiting for you. Where you been?”

Bucky scrubs a hand over his eyes.

“Dance hall.”

“You got a hickey on your neck.”

“You gonna take me to church over it?”

His tongue feels fuzzy. The money in his pocket weighs him down like a rock.

“Who was the lucky girl tonight?”

“What do you care?”

“Oh, Bucky,” says Steve disapprovingly, laying down his book.

The room is spinning too fast for Bucky to get his shoes off. Steve sighs noisily and gets up to help.

“Don’t know what I’m gonna do with you,” he mutters, unlacing Bucky’s left shoe.

“Who says you have to do something?”

Steve yanks off one shoe, and Bucky finally manages to get the other one.

“Come on, big guy. Let’s get you to bed before you break something.”

“Aw, lay off.”

He’s too drunk to have Steve’s hands on him like this, guiding him into the bedroom. He sits down heavily on the edge of the bed, letting Steve go to work on his tie. When he’s sober, he can hide behind a joke. But now, he can’t help but lean into Steve’s touch.

He knows he likes it too much. And he knows exactly what that says about him.

“Quit it, I can do it myself.”

“Shut up,” says Steve, not unkindly. “Stop wiggling around.”

He finally loosens the knot enough to slide it off.

“I got it from here.”

Steve ignores him, reaching for the buttons on Bucky’s jacket. Bucky wants to tip his face up and kiss him, hard and sweet. He tries to remember a time when he didn’t feel that dull ache in the back of his throat and comes up blank.

“Stop it, Stevie.”

He sways dangerously to the left, and Steve steadies him.

“Jesus, Barnes, did you drink the entire bar?”

“Yes,” Bucky informs him, batting his hands away to struggle with the buttons himself. Steve’s eyes are very close, blue and amused. He reaches past Bucky’s fumbling fingers, slim and sure, and Jesus Christ. Bucky can’t deal with this right now.

“I can undress myself, pal,” he snaps. He sounds rough, scratchy from smoke and cheap booze.

“Fine,” says Steve, holding his hands up. “Knock yourself out. I was just trying to help.”

Bucky feels like an asshole. His fingers aren’t working right, and he quickly gives up.

Steve looks back from the doorway, like he wants to say something admonishing.

“Goodnight, Buck.”

“You ain’t coming to bed?”

“I’ll take the chair tonight,” says Steve. “Seems like you need some space.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Steve doesn’t answer. Bucky feels pathetic, ashamed and angry. What right does Steve have to be pissed off about this? Who is he to judge?

Suddenly Bucky’s furious – at himself, at the draft, at the world for having a war in the first place. Nothing is fair. He wants to flip the bed over, kick through the wall and rip down the curtains. He wants to pull the paper out of his pocket and unfold it right in Steve’s face. But that wouldn’t do either of them any good.

“Sorry,” he croaks, dizzy and sick. “Don’t be sore at me.”

A faraway police siren splits the night, winding into the distance.

“I ain’t sore, I’m worried,” says Steve frankly, chewing on his lower lip.

“Why?”

“This ain’t like you. What’s going on?”

“Nothing.”

“Don’t bullshit me.”

Bucky blows out a long breath, nauseous. Then he makes a decision.

“Got fired.”

“From the wharf?”

“Grocery.”

“And that’s why you been staying out half the night, drinking yourself sick?”

“Guy’s gotta blow off steam somehow, don’t he?” Bucky mumbles, not meeting Steve’s eyes.

Steve crosses the room and sits back down next to Bucky. The bed sags beneath their combined weight. It’s probably three in the morning by now. Steve shouldn’t be up this late, it ain’t good for him. But Bucky’s already too stuffed full of guilt about other things to take on more.

“You lost jobs before, Buck. Talk to me. What’s going on?”

“Nothing.”

Steve reaches up to brush something out of Bucky’s hair. They watch each other for a slow moment, and Bucky very nearly opens his mouth and lets it all come spilling out.

But he doesn’t, and then Steve gives him a gentle smile.

“We’re in this together, pal.”

“I know.”

“So I’ll go down to the factory tomorrow. Maybe I can get my old job back.”

“No way,” says Bucky, slurry and stern. “Last thing you need is to be breathing in that shit again.”

“I’ll do what I have to do.”

“You’re still coughing from last time. I’m taking care of it, alright?”

“We’ll talk about it in the morning,” says Steve, affectionate and exasperated.

“No,” Bucky tries to say, but he can’t get the rest of the words out. Steve’s face is swimming again, a swirl of consternation.

“Get some rest,” one of them says.

“Sorry,” says Bucky thickly.

“Hush up. Close your eyes.”

Steve guides him down onto the pillow. He says something else, but Bucky doesn’t hear. He falls asleep with his jacket on, everything that Steve can’t know about buttoned up close to his heart.

 

*

One good thing about getting fired is that Bucky doesn’t have to work his usual Saturday overnight on Steve’s birthday. So instead of getting splinters, he gets dressed up nice and takes Steve across the bridge to a place downtown with cold drinks and hot jazz.

“Who are these girls, anyway?” Steve asks, fiddling with his hair.

“Hey, quit it. I worked hard on that.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s just my friend Trish from the grocery,” says Bucky. “She’s a hoot.   I thought you two might get along.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Just a feeling.”

Steve rolls his eyes. Bucky grins down at him, already half-drunk on the hot night air and the promise of a party.

“Come on, let’s get a move on. I said we’d be there at nine.”

“I’m not sure about this, Buck.”

“What else would you rather be doing? Eating spam and listening to the radio?”

“Doesn’t sound too bad.”

Bucky groans.

“You have every other night of your life to do that. It’s your birthday, man! Loosen up. This is gonna be fun, I promise.”

“Look, it’s just,” Steve trails off, tugging his tie.

“What?”

“I don’t know how to talk to dames.”

“Aw, it’s easy,” says Bucky, grabbing Steve by the shoulder. “You don’t gotta say much. Trish is real chatty, you’re lucky if you get a word in edgewise.”

“Well, if you say so.”

“Just follow my lead. Couple of drinks, couple of tunes, and you’ll be having a great time.”

“Alright,” says Steve, and allows Bucky to tug him into the smoky club. Bucky watches Steve look around, the blue light turning his face unfamiliar and exotic. The house band is already in full swing, brass horns and a hot spastic beat. Bucky wiggles his hips, excited.

Steve tries to say something, but launches into a coughing fit instead. Bucky claps him on the back.

“It’s really smoky in here.”

“I know,” says Bucky apologetically. “You get used to it.”

When the bartender comes over, he buys Steve a cocktail with extra cherries.

“Happy birthday, pal.”

“Thanks,” says Steve, eyeing it dubiously. “What is it?”

“A Manhattan, it’s real classy. It’s what they drink at the Stork Club.”

“You ain’t been anywhere near the Stork Club,” says Steve, but he takes a sip anyway. Bucky grins helplessly at him.

“Not bad, right?”

“I like the cherries.”

“Hey, Bucky!”

He looks around and sees Trish waving at him from a round little table in the corner. There’s another girl with her, blonde ringlets and lush, red lips. She looks bored as hell. Bucky’s smile widens.

“Hey, come on,” he whispers to Steve.

“But –“

“Don’t be nervous.”

“Evening, ladies,” he says, pulling out a chair for Steve.

“Hi, Bucky,” giggles Trish.

“This is my brother Steve,” says Bucky grandly. Steve’s cheeks turn pink. “It’s his birthday, so we all gotta be extra nice to him. Stevie, this is Trish, and, uh—I don’t believe we’ve met yet.”

“Audrey,” says the other girl, holding out a slim, red-nailed hand. Bucky takes it, flashing his best grin. She meets his eyes, cool and amused, and Bucky bites his lower lip happily.

God, he loves blondes.

“Well ain’t this a pleasure. My name’s James, but my friends call me Bucky.”

“Suppose I’ll wait awhile to decide what to call you, then,” says Audrey.

Trish gives her a little slap on the arm.

“Bucky’s nice!”

“That depends on who you ask,” says Steve.

Bucky laughs too hard to answer. Steve grins up at him, but his smile fades when Trish directs her attention at him.

“How old are you turning?”

“Twenty-four.”

“Old man,” says Bucky, still grinning. “Hey, you girls need another drink?”

“Gin and tonic,” says Audrey. “Please and thank you.”

“Can you make that two?”

“Of course.”

“Thanks, Bucky!”

“No problem, ladies,” says Bucky, sidling back up to the bar. He watches Steve while he waits for the bartender. Trish is gesturing with her hands, talking a mile a minute. Steve pulls at his collar, getting pinker and pinker.

Bucky rolls his eyes. Hopeless. But the night is young.

“So what do you two do?” Audrey asks when he gets back to their table. “Besides buy girls drinks at bars?”

“I’m just a regular old dockhand,” says Bucky, “but Steve here is a real live artist. He’s been in the New Yorker.”

Trish’s mouth drops open.

“Are you serious?”

“Only once,” Steve mumbles. “Papers ain’t taking cartoons like they used to.”

“Because of the war?”

“I guess so. I been trying to draw more political stuff, see if that makes a difference.”

“Wow,” says Trish, eyes like dinner plates.

“And _you_ hang out on the dock all day. Flirting with everything that walks by, I assume?”

“Not so much as you might think,” says Bucky. “The fishermen don’t appreciate my advances, and nice girls like you usually steer clear of the wharf on account of it smelling like dead fish.”

He gambles on a grin, and Audrey’s red lips twitch.

“I guess you have to make a living somehow.”

“He boxes, too,” adds Steve defensively. “He’s really good.”

“Tough guy, huh?”

“I’m alright,” says Bucky modestly. “I ain’t competed in awhile, though.”

“Are you going to enlist?”

Bucky shrugs, avoiding Steve’s gaze.

“Imagine I won’t have much of a choice if things keep going south.”

The band starts up a brash, swinging tune, and Audrey taps her nail on the table in time to the music. Bucky offers his hand.

“Wanna dance?”

“Alright. Trish?”

“I’ll catch up,” she says, eyes on Steve. “I want to hear more about these political cartoons.”

Bucky catches Steve’s eye as he gets up, tipping him a discreet wink. Steve shoots him a terrified glance, for reasons Bucky can’t fathom. The artist thing is like shooting fish in a barrel. He should capitalize on it more often.

Audrey pulls him into the fray and Bucky relaxes, sinking into the music like a hot bath. This is where he always feels most at home – swinging on the dance floor with a beautiful dame on his arm. By the time the song ends, Bucky’s happy and breathless, all thoughts of the war safely out of his head.

The band slows down into a love song. Bucky leans in as close as he thinks he’ll get away with, and Audrey presses against him. Her perfume fills his nose, flowery and intoxicating. She turns her face up and he takes a chance on a kiss.

“You’re a feisty one,” she murmurs, pressing closer. His hands dip lower on her waist.

“I’m a handful,” Bucky agrees.

“We seem to have that in common.”

From the corner of his eye, he sees Steve watching them. Trish is nowhere in sight, probably powdering her nose or something. Bucky tries to catch his eye for another wink, but Steve stares determinedly into his drink.

“You decided on my name yet?”

Audrey links her arms around Bucky’s neck. Her nails dig into his skin, light and sexy.

“No. But it’s nice to dance with a guy who actually knows how.”

“Honey, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”

“Mm, is that so?”

“I’ll show you a grand old time, if that's what you're lookin' for.”

Audrey quirks a smile up at him.

“We’ll see.”

“Either way, I’m already the luckiest guy here tonight.”

She laughs, leaning into his chest. They sway together, caught up in the press of the crowd. Audrey stands on her tiptoes to talk into his ear.

“So what’s up with your brother?”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s so quiet.”

“Oh, well,” says Bucky, unsure. “He’s a little shy. But he’s a keeper. Best guy I ever known.”

“It’s nice that you look out for him.”

“He’s the one keeping me in line, mostly.”

Another song starts up, lively and loud, and Bucky gives her a tight little twirl. She giggles, going along with it, and they swing into a raucous Lindy Hop. It’s hot, sweaty and crowded. Bucky’s having the time of his life. Nothing to hide, nothing to be ashamed of, nothing but brass horns, a fast beat, and sweaty hair flopping over his forehead.

“You’re too much, Bucky,” says Audrey as the song winds down, looping her arm through Bucky’s. “I need another drink!”

“You want me to tone it down?”

“Hell, no!”

Back at the table, Trish gives them an enthusiastic round of applause.

“You two sure can cut a rug! I had no idea you could dance like that, Bucky!”

“I got a few moves,” Bucky says modestly.

“Mr. Barnes here has promised us another round,” Audrey says, sitting down next to Trish.

“Oh, really?”

“I sure did. Steve, what do you say we get a couple of drinks for these beautiful gals?”

He tugs Steve out of the chair without waiting for a response.

“Your tie’s messed up,” Steve points out once they’re at the bar.

Bucky pulls on it mindlessly, trying to get the bartender’s attention.

“You’re making it worse. Here, let me fix it.”

Bucky holds still while Steve straightens him out.

“How’s it going with Trish?”

Steve frowns, dropping his hands.

“How do you think?”

Bucky rolls his eyes.

“Are you even trying?”

“Of course I’m trying, Buck. I’m not like you. I’m no good at this stuff.”

“Trish likes you. Just talk more about your art stuff.”

Steve goes a little red in the cheeks, refusing to meet Bucky’s eyes.

“Have you and her, uh –“

“Oh, no,” says Bucky quickly. “No way. She’s just a friend.”

He tips Steve a wink.

“But she sure seems to like you.”

“Jeez,” Steve mutters. “Don’t you ever give up?”

“Nope. You’re so close, man. Just gotta seal the deal.”

“I don’t know how to do that,” Steve says miserably.

The bartender finally comes over, and Bucky says, “Four G&Ts, please. Thanks.”

Steve looks so despondent that Bucky has to suppress a laugh.

“Alright, I’ll walk you through it. Here’s what you do. You’re next to her, talking about all your art shit, right?”

“Sure.”

“You wait for the right moment, then you get real close. Like this, see?”

He leans in toward Steve, one elbow on the bar, stepping a foot between Steve’s. Steve swallows visibly.

“Uh, then what?”

Bucky gives him a blank look.

“What do you think?”

“I can’t do that, Buck,” mutters Steve. “I’ve never – come on.”

“Why not? Say something cute in her ear, then you go in for the kiss. Easy as pie.”

“What do I say?”

“I dunno, something romantic.”

“Like what?”

Bucky thinks about it. He’s a little drunk, loose from dancing, and he’s enjoying the warmth coming off of Steve, smelling of charcoal dust and old paper. He licks his lips, giving Steve his most seductive eyes. Nobody’s paying attention to them, so he leans even closer to whisper into Steve’s ear, one hand on his sharp little shoulder.

“How’d you like to come back to my place for some nude modeling?”

Steve bursts out laughing. The bartender delivers their drinks on a tray, and Bucky gives her a handful of quarters, still cracking up.

“Thanks. Keep the change, honey.”

“If that’s what you call romantic, no wonder you ain’t got a steady girl.”

“No shit. But Trish likes you, pal. Trust me.”

“You’re crazy.”

“No, I’m perceptive. C’mon.”

Steve trails behind. Bucky sets the tray on the table with a flourish.

“Ladies.”

“Aw, thanks Bucky!”

Trish starts chattering to Steve again before he’s even sat down. Bucky kicks his foot happily under the table. Then Audrey meets his eyes and tips her glass toward him. Bucky gets a familiar tingle in his stomach.

From now, it’s only a matter of time.

He’s only halfway through his drink when Audrey sneaks her foot between his ankles. Their eyes meet, and she raises her eyebrows. Bucky’s smile widens, and he gives a little nod.

“I’m headed to the ladies,” she announces.

“Sure,” says Trish. She’s practically hanging off Steve’s arm, enraptured as he tells her about some fancypants Manhattan painter. Bucky’s too tipsy not to get a little misty-eyed, heart swelling with fondness. What a wonderful night.

“Might hit the bathroom myself,” he says innocently.

Steve barely looks at him, which Bucky takes as a good sign. Bucky mentally urges him on, then slips into the crowd.

There’s a bathroom upstairs for employees only. Audrey’s already waiting for him by the sink, barefoot in her stockings with her heels hooked around a finger. Bucky locks the door behind him.

“So about that grand old time I’m supposed to have,” she says, beckoning him closer.

“Buckle up, sweetheart.”

It’s rushed and sweet, messy and hot. Bucky makes her come with his mouth, knees on the wet tile, and then she rucks up her skirt and sits on his lap on top of the closed toilet seat. She’s all smooth curves and tight blonde curls like a film star in the dim light. She smells like juniper and cigarette smoke. Bucky wants it to last forever. But part of the appeal is that someone could come knocking at the door any second.

“Oh, Bucky!”

“Yeah, baby,” he groans, hands tightening on her hips, moving her back and forth on his dick. He presses his lips to the soft shell of her ear. “You gonna come again?”

“Yeah, if you keep – oh, god,” she breathes, digging her nails into the back of his neck. “Just like that. Don’t stop.”

“You feel incredible,” Bucky chokes out, and she buries her face in his shoulder, gasping.

He’s not going to last long. Both of her hands slide into his hair, gripping it hard, and Bucky comes like a landslide, pressing his open mouth to Audrey’s to keep himself quiet. She kisses him through it, hot and languid, swallowing all of Bucky’s moans.

Then she smiles, taps him on the nose, and hops off to strap her shoes back on. Bucky ties off the condom, breathing hard. He throws it in the garbage and watches Audrey fluff her hair.

She meets his eyes in the mirror as she reapplies her lipstick.

“Not bad, for a dockhand.”

Bucky laughs helplessly.

“I do what I can.”

“See you down there,” she says, blowing a kiss.

He catches it in his hand, a little dazed, a little breathless.

“Not if I see you first, sweetheart.”

Steve’s still talking about that same god damn painter when Bucky goes back downstairs.

“How was dancing?”

Bucky shoots a glance at Audrey, whose lips quirk up.

“Uh – good.”

“Amazing,” Audrey supplies.

“I didn’t see you out there,” says Trish, nose wrinkled in confusion.

“We got caught up by the stage,” says Audrey, with the practiced smoothness of an accomplished liar. “Didn’t you see how many people were up there?”

After last call, the girls hail a cab, headed to some house party in Tribeca. Steve gets a kiss on the cheek from Trish and a good-natured dressing down from Bucky in the subway station.

“Lay off, Buck. I’m exhausted, okay? Even if she wanted to neck, which I’m sure she didn’t –“

“She did.”

“I don’t know about that.”

“We could all be in that cab right now, feeling each other up.”

“You coulda gone,” Steve mumbles, looking guilty.

“Nah, I ain’t abandoning my best pal on his birthday.” He shoots Steve a cheeky grin. “Besides, I got all my necking done in the bathroom while you were jabbering about that painter, what’s his name? Mark Rutherford?”

“Rothko,” says Steve, pained. “Did you really? You’re incorrigible, Barnes.”

“That’s a swanky word for handsome, right?”

“You know what it means, quit pretending. You aced English class.”

“That was years ago. At this point, I’m lucky I can still spell.”

“At least you’ve kept your looks,” Steve murmurs, and Bucky snorts a laugh. He slings an arm around Steve’s shoulders, leaning against him in the empty station.

“What do you say, Stevie? An okay birthday?”

“Hated every minute of it,” says Steve, ducking his head so Bucky can’t see his smile.

“Aw, you loved it.”

“ _You_ loved it.”

“I did,” says Bucky wholeheartedly. “I really and truly did. We gotta do that more often.”

“You gonna take that Audrey out sometime? Make it official?”

Bucky grins.

“If she’ll let me. Boy, that girl is a firecracker. You don’t even want to know.”

“You’re right, I don’t.”

“You should call up Trish this week.”

“I don’t know,” says Steve dubiously. “You really think she’d want to see me again?”

“Yeah, why not?”

“I’m, you know.” Steve gestures at himself. “I didn’t talk for half the night, then I rambled like an idiot for the other half.”

“She loved it. She was totally – what’s the word? Enamored.”

“Aw, lay off.”

“I’m serious, pal. She really liked you.”

“She’s a nice person.”

“I told you, didn’t I? I had no idea she was into all that art stuff, too. Just a lucky break.”

“Well, maybe I’ll call her.”

Bucky grins, victorious.

“You ought to bring her by sometime. Show her your drawings. And, you know, whatever else she wants to see.”

Steve ignores Bucky’s suggestive tone, yawning.

“I’ll think about it.”

The train comes, and they sit down side by side, even though the compartment is empty. Steve yawns again, a real jaw-cracker.

“Take a rest,” Bucky urges. “I’ll wake you up when we’re home.”

“I’m alright,” says Steve, but his eyes droop.

Eventually, he falls asleep with his head tipped onto Bucky’s shoulder. Bucky sits very still, smiling to himself, soothed by the rumble of the late-night train carrying them home.

 

*

Bucky never tells Steve that his number came up. Instead, he announces without fanfare that he’s enlisted. They’re side by side on the fire escape in the late August twilight, Bucky smoking a cigarette in his grimy work clothes.

Steve goes quiet, deflating like a balloon.

“Fort McCoy?”

“Train leaves on December first.”

Steve’s gaze pierces Bucky’s heart, clear and heartbreaking. Bucky wants badly to run a thumb over his lips, his hunger-sharp cheekbones. It’s the best way he knows how to love. But he can’t, so he settles for an arm over Steve’s skinny shoulders.

“It ain’t that big a deal, you know? Just basic training. Who knows? Maybe the war will end soon and they won’t even need me.”

“You know that ain’t true. They need good soldiers now more than ever.”

Bucky snorts.

“Not sure how good a soldier I’ll make, at any rate.”

“You’ll be great.”

Bucky’s best skills are limited to boxing, swing dancing, and combing his hair, but he’s touched by the pride in Steve’s voice.

“I guess.”

Steve’s hands clench in his lap.

“I’m going back to the enlistment office.”

“Like hell you are!”

“Think about it, Bucky. We could ship out together.”

“I am thinking about it, and it ain’t happening.”

“You think I can’t fight?”

“It’s not that,” says Bucky, reining himself in. This is exactly what he didn’t want, the whole point of the damn lie in the first place. “Come on, Stevie, don’t be dumb. They already said no.”

“I could ride the train uptown. They don’t know me there.”

“And put what on the form this time, Queens?”

“Maybe.”

“Steve, listen to me. You’re gonna get yourself arrested.”

He grabs Steve’s thin arm, too hard. Steve doesn’t flinch, eyes steely and stubborn.

“I have to try.”

“Says who?”

“You don’t _get_ it,” says Steve, frustrated.

“Try me.”

Steve turns away, profile etched with pain in the dusky twilight. Bucky wants to take him into his arms, smooth out that suffering with the pads of his fingers.

“You wouldn’t understand. Everything is so god damn easy for you.”

Bucky blinks once, twice, trying to stay calm. It doesn’t work.

“You think I _want_ to go? You think I want to sleep in a ditch with a gun on my back? Get my arm blown off?”

“You’re doing your duty,” says Steve staunchly. “That’s all I want too. I owe it to the country, and – to you.”

“You don’t owe me shit, Stevie! I’d rather be dead than –“

He can’t finish the sentence. He takes another deep breath, trying to stay calm. “That’s not why I’m going. I’m not like you. I’m just – doing what I have to do.”

“And I got no right to do any less.”

“Who says you gotta do less? They need smart guys like you here at home, too.”

“Oh, give me a break, Bucky. Am I gonna outwit Hitler from Bensonhurst?”

“There’s important jobs here,” says Bucky stubbornly.

“I want to fight.”

“But you don’t _have_ to.”

“You think I can’t?”

“Is that what I fucking said, Rogers?”

“Quit lying to me.”

They stare each other down. Steve’s breathing hard, and for a wild second, Bucky thinks he might haul off and punch him. Come on, he begs silently. Do it.

But he just keeps looking Bucky dead in the eye, until finally Bucky folds and breaks the silence.

“I ain’t lying.”

“I’d give anything to go with you.”

“I know that.”

Their eyes meet like a challenge.

“You can’t change my mind on this.”

Bucky sighs.

“I know that. I know I’m a fool to even try.”

On the street below, the neighborhood sings its usual city night-song of horns, shouts, laughter and drunken harmonies. Steve’s gaze softens. He touches Bucky’s right hand, just above his wrist.

“You’ll be a hero.”

“Yeah, right,” says Bucky hollowly.

He wants to laugh, make some kind of joke about it, but it sticks in his throat. Steve’s fingers trace the veins on the back of his hand, feather-light, pulling the truth out of his mouth.

Bucky swallows hard.

“I’m scared.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that, Buck.”

Bucky shakes his head, wordless.

Steve’s giving him that soft, knowing look he gets sometimes when he thinks he’s right about something.

“I know you. You can say what you want about the war, and you’re not wrong. But you’re doing the right thing, and you’re strong as hell to do that much.”

“If you say so.”

Steve’s eyes search his face. He’s still touching Bucky’s wrist with his long, slim fingers.

“Doing something you’re afraid of makes you the bravest kind of person.”

“Shit, I ain’t brave.”

“I’m proud of you.”

“What for? I ain’t done anything.”

“You’ve done plenty. And you’ll do plenty more.”

For a second, Bucky thinks he’s going to lace their fingers together like Bucky’s his girl. Bucky feels so guilty he could throw up. Then Steve lets go, and Bucky flicks the remains of his cigarette into the empty evening. Steve grins, knocking their elbows together.

“Alright, let’s celebrate.”

“Come on, man,” Bucky protests, but secretly it’s a relief that Steve isn’t looking at him anymore. Bucky’s ma used to say that Steve saw past people’s words into their true heart, which Bucky has spent a great deal of time hoping isn’t true.

“Too late,” says Steve, climbing through the window.

Bucky hears him rooting around in the icebox, pulling out the bottle they save for special occasions. He focuses on the sky, the smoky clouds, faraway stars, the pinpricks of city lights across the bridge. Then Steve’s back, pushing a tea mug into his hands.

“To Bucky Barnes, future American hero.”

“Aw, quit that,” says Bucky. “I can’t toast myself, anyway. It ain’t polite.”

“Since when are you polite?”

Steve socks him in the shoulder and drains the glass without coughing. He’s beautiful in the low light, golden-soft hair over a delicate brow. Bucky aches for him.

“To you, Buck.”

_Quit lying to me._

Bucky drains the cup in one go.

 

*

The weekend before Bucky leaves for basic, David lays him out on a double bed in some upscale Manhattan hotel. It’s the real deal this time, no back alley or flea-bitten dive with an hourly rate.

David doesn’t bother to take off his wedding ring. His hands find secret parts of Bucky’s body that make him shiver, parts Bucky didn’t realize were there. It’s so unfamiliar from sex as he knows it that it might be another act altogether.

The clock in the insurance building strikes midnight. Bucky’s on his stomach, trying to keep breathing. It hurts much worse than last time, probably because he’s mostly sober.

“Relax, kid.”

“Shit,” Bucky chokes out, ashamed.

He deserves this pain. This is what he asked for, isn’t it? It’s time to shut up and take it.

David fucks him slowly at first, fingers digging into his hips. It still hurts, but the pain isn’t so sharp now.

Bucky exhales into it and gets a sudden flash of Steve behind him, Steve halfway inside him with his slim, tapered fingers on Bucky’s bare back. He must make a little noise, because David says, “You like that?”

Bucky can’t answer, caught in the unexpected fantasy. Steve would try to be gentle, but Bucky doesn’t want his tenderness. He wants Steve’s rage, all of his frustration and pain.

David snakes an arm around his chest, pulling him up onto his knees. It’s almost erotic when he imagines Steve fucking into him, his red cheeks and sweat-soaked hair.

Bucky closes his eyes, dreaming.

“That’s right,” David breathes out, satisfied. “Take it.”

He pushes Bucky facedown against the sheets, pulling his wrists together behind his back. It feels strangely good to be so helpless. He had no idea how bad he’d wanted this.

“Hold still, kid.”

He closes his eyes and he’s not downtown anymore, but home in his own bed, and it’s Steve holding him down with his confident, clever hands. It’s Steve giving it to him fast and hard, taking out all of his considerable anger on Bucky.

“Harder,” he says, muffled, in a voice that doesn’t quite belong to him.

David groans, tightening his grip on Bucky’s wrists. Bucky’s arms burn with the strain. David’s cock drags against something that makes him see stars, and he gasps pornographically.

“Fuck yeah,” pants David. “Come for me, you little slut.”

Steve wouldn’t say that. Steve would kiss the back of his shoulder, brush the tears out of his eyes. God, Stevie. Bucky wants to take him apart piece by piece, watch him come with his cheeks burning and his head thrown back. He wants to sit on Steve’s cock in the middle of their bed in Brooklyn, hands over each other’s mouths so nobody can hear them through the paper-thin walls.

Bucky shoots off thinking about Steve’s fingers in his mouth, Steve’s cock up his ass.

“F-f-fuck,” he gasps out, drawing a shuddery breath. “ _Steve_.”

David barks out a single bray of laughter.

“Who the hell is Steve?”

Bucky doesn’t answer, and David pulls out, flipping him over effortlessly.

“You’re a god damn mess,” he says, pleased. He forces Bucky’s legs apart again and thrusts in deep. It hurts, even through the lingering pleasure, and Bucky bites back a groan. David pushes his face to the side, holding him down.

Bucky stares at the nice striped wallpaper with the gold leaf, letting himself get fucked. Finally, David pulls out.

“Get on your knees.”

Bucky does what he’s told. He closes his eyes and lets David tip his face up. His thumb digs into the corner of Bucky’s mouth, forcing it open.

The first spray hits him in the cheek, dripping down onto his tongue. David grabs him by the hair and comes over his face and chest, moaning.

The taxi back to Brooklyn costs two dollars, which David makes a big deal out of giving him. Bucky sneaks in just past two, avoiding the creaky floorboard by the bookshelf. He half-expects Steve to be watching him from the table like last time, severe and prim as a schoolmistress, waiting to chew him out. But the apartment is dark, tomb-silent.

Bucky loosens his tie, quietly stepping out of his shoes. He feels strange, hollowed-out and lonely. The city itself seems to sleep for once, blanketed in fresh snow – no catfights, no squealing tires, no faraway shouts. Bucky feels like the only man left in the world.

He takes out the bill crumpled in his pocket and folds it up as tiny as he can. Into the tea tin it goes.

Sooner or later, he’ll have to tell Steve about the money. He doesn’t know what he’ll say yet, but what’s one more lie? Maybe lying ain’t a sin when it’s to protect someone.

Bucky creeps into the bedroom, unbuttoning his shirt. Steve’s asleep on his side, mouth open.

His train to McCoy leaves at 0700. Steve made him swear up, down and sideways that Bucky will tell him everything about it. Bucky’s pretty sure he tried to enlist again. It’s a miracle he hasn’t gotten arrested.

Bucky curls up on his side, watching Steve’s chest rise and fall in the moonlight. The fantasy from earlier rises in his mind, vivid and shameful.

If he leaned forward right now and brushed his lips over Steve’s, what would happen? Steve would probably wake up and sock him on the jaw. Or, worse – and far more likely – he’d say something like, “There’s nothing wrong with being queer, Buck.”

It would hurt deeper than the punch. Bucky isn’t sure he could survive Steve’s abominable kindness.

Steve stirs, mumbling in his sleep. His eyes flutter open, blinking in the moonlight.

“You just get back?”

Bucky swallows the feelings out of his voice.

“Yeah, a bit ago.”

“Long night,” says Steve, eyes closed. “You work too hard.”

Bucky chokes back a laugh.

“You get in a fight?”

Bucky realizes Steve’s eyeing the finger-shaped bruises on his upper arm.

“It’s nothing,” he says, throat thick. “Go back to sleep.”

Steve knows he’s lying, and Bucky knows he knows. But after a moment, he folds himself down onto the pillow, facing Bucky they way he did when they were kids. Bucky wishes fiercely that he could whisper his secrets into the dark the way he used to. Before everything got so damn complicated.

“You nervous for tomorrow?”

“Nah. Can’t be worse than what Vincenzo puts me through on the wharf, right?”

“Gonna miss you, Buck.”

“Me, too.”

They’re face to face in the shadows, knuckles and knees brushing together. What will it feel like to lie in the unfamiliar dark and hear a dozen men breathing, none of whom are Steve?

“Listen,” he starts.

“What?”

Something in Steve’s moonlit face makes the words stick in his throat.

“There’s, uh, a few quarters in the back of the sock drawer. In case you need it while I’m gone.”

“Come on, Buck. I got some money. You’ll barely be away three months.”

“Just in case something happens.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know, smart guy. What’s wrong with being prepared?”

Steve chuckles.

“Since when are you a Boy Scout?”

“You be safe while I’m gone, hear me? No more alley fights until I’m back.”

“Yes, sir,” says Steve, eyes crinkling up at the corners.

Bucky wants, very badly, to kiss him. Instead, he gives him a little shove. Steve catches him by the shoulder. His nose presses into the hollow of Bucky’s throat, sharp and cold.

“Quit it, Rogers.”

Steve snuggles closer. Bucky wraps his arms around Steve’s thin body, chest ready to overflow.

“I’m coming right back, you know,” he says into Steve’s hair. “You ain’t getting rid of me that easy.”

With anyone else – any other guy – it would suspect. It would be queer. But it’s different with Steve. They’re brothers, or something even deeper. Steve pulls back just enough that Bucky can count his eyelashes.

“Seems I can’t ever get rid of you, Barnes.”

“I’m your bad penny.”

“No,” says Steve, sleep-thick. “You’re my best guy.”

Bucky’s throat closes up like a dam with all the words he can’t say. He drops his cheek against Steve’s hair, wishing the moment would last forever.

Steve’s breathing slows, and Bucky tightens his arms. There’s only one good reason to fight the war that Bucky knows of, and it has nothing to do with things like patriotism or duty.

“I ain’t never gonna leave you for good,” he whispers fiercely, once he knows Steve’s asleep. “I’ll always come back.”

 

*

On Monday morning, Bucky watches Steve wave from the platform in his church tie with all the girls fluttering their handkerchiefs. Snow swirls down from the white sky, thick flakes settling in Steve’s hair. Bucky waves back until the train rounds the bend and he’s out of sight.

He settles back into his seat, packed into the mass of jostling, jovial boys. A sharp vise squeezes his chest.

It feels worse than he expected, roaring away from home toward the wide colorless sky. It’s only twelve weeks, but they all know what comes after.

 

*

Bucky returns to Brooklyn in the first tentative days of spring, mud on the sidewalks and pregnant robins bobbing happily in the bare branches. It smells like fresh bread and motor oil, like home. He tips his hat at a jaunty angle, smiling at the pretty girls in front of the antique shop. An old man salutes him on the street corner, and Bucky returns it.

When he gets home, he clumps up the stairs three at a time, bursting through the door. Steve’s at the kitchen table, sketching in the late afternoon light. Bucky watches the smile spread over his face.

“Well look who it is.”

“Hey, Steve-o,” says Bucky, grinning.

He drops his rucksack on the floor and takes two steps forward. Steve meets him halfway, pelting into his arms. Bucky sweeps him up like they’re in love, dizzy from the journey, speechless with relief. All he can do is laugh.

Finally Steve pulls back, clapping him on the back.

“Good to see you, Buck.”

“Good to be seen.”

“Did you get my letter?”

“Sure did, and thanks for that, by the way.”

Steve had sent him a nice, long one, along with an excellent impression of their street knee-deep in snow. Bucky had traced it lightly, careful not to smudge the lines. On the flip side was a cruel and hilarious cartoon of Mr. Gilbert, the grocer who had fired him last summer. Bucky laughed and laughed when he saw it, homesick and lovelorn.

Steve catches his arm, turning his sleeve to see the fresh chevrons.

“Holy cow! You got promoted?”

“Yep,” says Bucky. “Sergeant James Barnes. Can you believe they want me in charge of something?”

“Sure. You’re a good leader.”

“Nah, I’m just a good shot.”

He takes off his hat, setting it next to Steve’s sketchbook on the table.

“Christ, that’s really something, Buck.”

“You’re taking the Lord’s name in vain now? You’re practically feral without me around.”

Steve rolls his eyes.

“Cause you’re such a good influence.”

Bucky smells the wood smoke curling through the open window, the familiar icy tang of salt from the wharf. He doesn’t know how he can be so homesick for a place he hasn’t even left yet.

“Come on,” says Bucky, swallowing the lump in his throat. “Let’s go out and do something. You wanna see a movie?”

“I got something to do right here,” says Steve, digging in the fridge for a bottle of clear liquid.

“What’s that, rat poison?”

“No, you idiot, it’s vodka. Dr. Steinberg gave it to me for helping him plant tomatoes. I saved it for you.”

“How thoughtful.”

Steve gets out some glasses. Bucky takes off his jacket and turns on the radio, switching stations until he gets Benny Goodman.

“You hungry?”

“I had a pie on the way home,” says Bucky, pulling out a chair. “Come on, sit down and tell me what you been doing.”

“You’re the one who needs to do the telling.”

Steve pushes a glass of vodka toward him.

“I dunno what to tell.”

“What was it like?”

“Reveille at five,” says Bucky. “Food was shit, I’ll tell you that much. We had meatloaf for Christmas and I thought I was gonna die. What’d you do for Christmas?”

“I went upstairs to Mrs. Mancini’s,” says Steve distractedly. “What were the days like?”

“Aw, it wasn’t nothing exciting. Lots of drills and running. Most of the guys were a bunch of boneheads, so we got shouted at a lot.  They pulled me out a couple weeks in for special training.”

“What kind of training?”

“Target practice, mostly.”

“You look stronger.”

Bucky flexes his bicep.

“This is just the beginning. I’ll be one bad motherfucker when I come home from the front. Maybe I’ll get a tattoo.”

Steve rolls his eyes, fiddling with the rim of his glass. He’s got that look like he wants to say something, but doesn’t know how.

Bucky narrows his eyes.

“What’s on your mind?”

“Nothing.”

“Spit it out, Stevie.”

Steve doesn’t answer, giving Bucky his sad eyes.

“I know you’re blue you ain’t going overseas. But we ought to enjoy this time while we got it, don’t you think? I don’t know when I’m getting my orders, and –”

“That’s not it.”

“Hm?”

Steve watches him, tongue darting out to drag across his lower lip.

“I found the money.”

He might as well have socked Bucky in the gut.

“I – I was gonna tell you before I shipped out.”

“It’s a lot.”

“I might be gone a long time.”

Steve’s quiet for a moment, and Bucky wonders if he’s angry. Steve doesn’t like accepting help from anybody.

“You gonna tell me where it came from?”

“What does that matter? It’s for you. I know you got some money stashed away, but it’s there if you need it.”

 _I don’t need your help, jerk_ , Steve’s going to say. Then they’ll get into one of their usual squabbles about who needs what from whom, and who is a stubborn little asshole with more pride than brains. Things will be normal.

But Steve doesn’t say anything. Bucky swallows nervously, and accidentally drinks the rest of his glass. The vodka burns all the way down his throat.

“Tell me the truth, Bucky.”

Steve holds his gaze, eyes clear and sharp.

“If you think I stole it, you’re wrong.”

“A guy came around here asking for you,” says Steve carefully, and Bucky’s stomach takes a sickening dive. “Two, maybe three weeks ago.”

“What guy?”

“Some three-piece. Looked like a real piece of work. He caught me going in the front door, asked if James Barnes was around.”

The room gets a little shaky. The radio nosedives into static, sputtering gibberish.

“Shit.”

Bucky gets up to fix it, head swimming. How could David have found this place?

“Who was he, Buck?”

“I don’t know,” says Bucky, throat dry. He’s too jittery to sit back down.

“Oh really? He knew all about you.”

“You talked to him?”

“Just for a minute. I told him you’re at basic, and he left.”

“Jesus.”

Bucky scrubs both hands over his face. His tie feels way too tight, and he pulls it loose, hands cold and clammy.

“If you’re involved in some shady shit, I swear to every saint in the book –“

“I’m not! Christ, is that what you think?”

“What the fuck am I supposed to think? Six months’ rent stuffed in the tea tin, and then some slicked-back gangster with his fifty-buck suit comes by looking for you? Don’t tell me that’s just your buddy from the docks. He looked like he _owns_ a dock.”

“It’s not like that,” says Bucky, sweating. “He’s just – don’t worry about it, okay? I did some work for him.”

“What work you been doing for that kinda money?”

“Couple of lucky breaks, that’s all.”

Bucky undoes the top two buttons of his shirt, but it doesn’t do anything to help him breath.

“So you’re gambling again? You said you stopped.”

Bucky shrugs, holding onto the back of his chair. He feels weak, dizzy with the effort to conceal the noxious swirl of fear and rage inside his chest.

Steve takes a swig right out of the bottle. His hair falls down over one eye, doing nothing to hide his scowl.

“I don’t like this, Buck.”

“Lay off, would ya?”

“Sit down.”

Bucky does what he’s told, hunching over the table on his elbows. Steve looks him in the eye.

“Tell me the truth. Was that guy a bookie?”

“Steve, please.”

Bucky reaches out before he can help himself, pushing the hair out of Steve’s face.

“Will you please let it go? I’m not in any trouble, I promise.”

Steve seems to hold his breath. Bucky’s fingers linger at his brow just an instant too long, and he drops his hand quickly.

“Just trust me on this,” he pleads, meeting Steve’s eyes.

Steve gives him a long look, the silence stretching on and on until Bucky thinks he’ll asphyxiate.

Finally, he nods.

“Okay. I trust you.”

Bucky reaches for the vodka, fingers shaking. He forces the tremble out of his voice.

“Just don’t go buying no new motorbike while I’m gone, okay?”

“Too late. It’s already parked round back.”

Bucky snorts a laugh, trying to shake the chill that creeps into his bones. It doesn’t work, so he refills his glass.

 

*

He finally tracks David down the day before he ships out.

“Hey, asshole,” he grits out, knocking the cigarette out of David’s hand. David blinks at him, nonplussed and pissed off, then smirks when he finally recognizes Bucky in uniform.

“Well don’t you look pretty?”

Bucky yanks him into the alley by his elbow, shoving him back against the dirty bricks.

“You better watch yourself, pal.”

David lights another cigarette, exasperated.

“Step off, kid. We don’t need any trouble.”

“Let me make something real clear for you,” says Bucky, fisting a hand in David’s tie. “You come round my place again, and I’ll show you trouble. Got that?”

David shoves him off.

“I was in the neighborhood. What’s the big deal?”

“That ain’t how it fuckin’ works. You don’t get to show up, asking my friends where I am –“

“That little guy’s your friend? He looks like he’s about twelve.”

“Yeah, he’s my fuckin’ friend. And he’s twice the man you are, so lay off.”

“Oh, I see how it is,” says David with poisonous amusement. “That must be the one whose name you can’t keep out of your mouth while I’m fucking you. Your precious Steve.”

Bucky sees red.

“Don’t you fucking say his name.”

“Now I get why you’re so desperate for it,” David smirks. “Little guy looks like he’d have a stroke just trying to get it up.”

Bucky throws a wild right hook, and David catches his wrist. Bucky struggles free, but David tosses him aside easily.

“Fuck off, you little fag.”

“Maybe I’ll take the train up to West Columbus,” Bucky spits. “How’d you like that?”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Maybe I’ll drop in and say hello to your wife. What’s her name again, Tansy?”

There’s a brief, shocked silence. The color drains from David’s face.

Bucky says, “You ain’t the only one in this city who knows how to find somebody.”

David hits him across the face, and Bucky goes flying into a pile of garbage and old newspapers. It’s worth it. David advances on him, blocking out the light.

“You come near my family, and I’ll kill you.”

“Feeling’s mutual, pal,” says Bucky, struggling to his feet. He picks up his hat. “Stay out of Brooklyn. Stay away from – me.”

David straightens his sleeves.

“You’re trash, Barnes.”

Bucky says nothing. David blows smoke in his face.

“You think joining the Army can change what you are? Guys like you are only good for one thing.”

“Walk away, pal.”

David gives him a long, measured look, then spits on the ground at Bucky’s feet.

“I hope to God some Nazi bastard puts you out of your misery.”

“Get bent, asshole.”

Bucky stares him down, and finally David retreats, looking both ways before stepping onto the sidewalk. Bucky hangs in the shadows for a few minutes, trying to collect himself. He’s over-stimulated, furious, adrenaline coursing through him with nowhere to go. This must be what Steve feels like when he launches himself onto guys three times his size.

Finally he takes the train back over the bridge. Steve isn’t home, and Bucky finds behind the movie theater, in the midst of getting laid out by some punk.

Bucky gets the fight he’d been craving, and afterwards he mops up Steve’s bloody nose with his handkerchief.

“You know, sometimes I think you like getting punched.”

Steve coughs a few times, trying to get his breath back. His eyes catch on Bucky like he’s seeing him for the first time.

“You get your orders?”

Bucky forces a smile.

“The 107th. Shipping out for England first thing tomorrow.”

Steve’s face closes in on itself.

“I should be going with you.”

Bucky snatches the scrap of paper sticking out of his coat pocket.

“Oh Christ, Stevie, this again?”

Steve says nothing, radiating a sullen gloom.

“You’re from Paramus now?”

“I had to try.”

“First of all, no you didn’t. Second of all, Jersey? Really?”

Steve glares at the ground.

“Drop it, Buck.”

“You know it’s illegal to lie on your enlistment form, right?”

“Then let them arrest me.”

“Quit talking like that, punk.”

Bucky hooks an arm around his shoulder, frustrated and affectionate in equal measures. He pulls Steve out of the alley, ignoring his surly silence.

“Let’s get you cleaned up. Guess who got us a couple of dates for the fair tonight?”

Once they’re upstairs, Steve stomps around like a kid having a tantrum. It seems like he’s waiting for Bucky to say something smart so they can get into a proper fight, which is annoying. Bucky does his best to ignore it. It’s his last night in Brooklyn for a long, long time, and it’s not his problem if Steve wants to act like a cranky little asshole.

But after ten minutes of watching Steve stalk around with his split lip bleeding everywhere, Bucky finally snaps.

“What the hell is your problem?”

“What’s yours?”

“You,” says Bucky, exasperated. “What’s with the attitude?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Then sit down a minute.”

“Thought we were going out.”

“That’s not for another hour, Steve – _Steve_.”

He catches his wrist, almost by accident. His fingers go all the way around and then some. Steve glares at him but doesn’t pull away.

Bucky pitches his voice low and placid.

“What’s the deal, pal?”

“It’s nothing,” says Steve, eyes on the floor, all the fight running out of him. “I ought to change.”

Bucky gets up and pulls a clean shirt out of the bureau. He tosses it to Steve, and Steve holds it with both hands, avoiding Bucky’s eyes.

He heaves a sigh, and Bucky braces himself for yet another speech about how bad Steve wants to go get blown up overseas.

“What?”

“Why do you think you gotta get me dates all the time?”

“Huh? I don’t think that.”

Steve turns the shirt over and over in his hands.

“You still do it.”

Bucky puzzles it out for a moment. It’s been that way since they were kids. If Bucky had a sandwich, he gave half to Steve. It’s how they’ve always operated, as natural as breathing.

“It’s more fun when you’re there,” he says finally.

“You do it ‘cause you feel bad for me.”

“No, I don’t!”

“Just admit it,” Steve snaps.

“I ain’t admitting shit, cause it’s not true!”

“Bucky, please.”

“Why would I feel bad for you? You got the world at your feet, Rogers.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“What do you think? World-class artist, smart as a damn whip, and the handsomest devil in New York City. Besides me, of course.”

It kind of works. Steve just stares at him.

“The only thing I feel bad about is your atrocious cooking skills.”

Steve’s lips twitch.

Bucky presses his advantage, reaching forward to undo the buttons of Steve’s soiled, bloody shirt.

“Don’t know how you’re gonna get by without me around to make you edible food. You think maybe Mrs. Mancini upstairs can take over the domestic duties?”

“Shut up,” says Steve, ducking his head to hide a laugh. The shirt slides off his shoulders, and he puts on the new one.

“Yes, sir, I hate to think of the state I’ll find you in when I come back. Probably have burnt the place to ashes trying to boil water for some damn oatmeal.”

“I’ll be living in an alley,” says Steve, pulling his suspenders up.

“I’ll have to domesticate you all over again. God, what a pain.”

“What am I gonna do without you, Buck?”

“It’s only a few years,” says Bucky airily. He has to joke about it or he’s going to cry. He’s going to lose his mind. “You won’t want for company, that’s for damn sure. You know how many women live in this city? They’ll be climbing you like a tree.”

“More like a shrub,” says Steve, but he’s smiling.

“Just save one for me, okay? And don’t let her pop out too many before I get back. Our kids gotta grow up the same age.”

“Like I have to save you anything. You can get a dance from anyone you want.”

“Not anyone,” says Bucky.

There’s a beat of silence. From an open window upstairs, a lilt of jazz drifts in on the smoky night air.

_Some day . . . when I’m awfully low, when the world is cold . . . I will feel a glow just thinking of you . . ._

“You’re full of it, Buck. They line up to dance with you. I’ve seen it.”

_Oh you’re lovely . . . with your smile so warm, and your cheeks so soft . . ._

“Never got one from you, though,” says Bucky, pulling Steve close before either of them can think too hard about it. He gives him a goofy little twirl.

_There’s nothing for me but to love you . . . and the way you look tonight . . ._

“Hey, quit it,” Steve laughs. “That ain’t funny.”

“Then how come you’re laughing?”

He laces his fingers through Steve’s left hand, dipping the other low on his back.

_And that laugh that wrinkles your nose . . . touches my foolish heart . . ._

They twirl around the small room, Steve spitting merry little curses into Bucky’s collar.

“What’s it like dancing with a handsome fella in uniform?” Bucky asks, leaning close like he would with a girl. Just for a laugh, of course. “Is it everything you dreamed about?”

“I’m dreaming about punching your lights out,” Steve grumbles, but he doesn’t pull back. If anything, he allows Bucky to tug him closer, as close as they can get away with.

_Lovely . . . don’t you ever change . . . keep that breathless charm . . ._

Bucky can’t catch his breath, drowning in love, lust, fear and heartbreak. The evening breeze blows over their faces, cool and crisp. He can feel the sultry brass in his throat, every inch of his skin electric with Steve’s closeness.

_There’s nothing for me but to love you . . . and the way you look tonight . . ._

They’re barely moving now, Bucky’s hands low on Steve’s back. He can’t concentrate with Steve’s fingers linked behind his neck, eyes turning up to his, blue as sin and long-lashed as a doe.

“We ought to go,” Steve murmurs, lips pink and inviting.

Bucky panics.

“Yeah, you’re right.”

He drops his hands. Steve untangles his fingers, eyes lingering on the front of Bucky’s uniform. Bucky aches to fill the silence with something true. Something he’s never said, something he might never get the chance to say again.

But then Steve gives him a grin.

“Didn’t step on my feet once. No wonder the girls go wild for you, Barnes.”

“That’s Sergeant Barnes to you,” says Bucky, and Steve rolls his eyes.

“Come on, Sarge. We’re late for the future.”

*

The next morning dawns bright and cold. Bucky combs his hair back, looking himself over in the scummy mirror. He can hear Steve puttering around in the kitchen, probably about to blow something up. He’d been asleep when Bucky snuck in last night, wiping the lipstick off his jaw.

Bucky can feel rather than see the ship waiting in the harbor to take him across the Atlantic. His limbs feel leaden and heavy. Even the weak Brooklyn sunlight pulls at his bones like fishhooks, _stay, stay._

Steve makes him a plate of toast. It’s burnt to hell, and Bucky makes the same joke as always, and Steve gives him the same dirty look. Bucky’s throat is closing up, and it has nothing to do with the food.

Since the fair last night, Steve’s had a strange, faraway look on his face. Something has changed, just out of Bucky’s field of perception. But he doesn’t know what it is, and Steve’s not talking. There’s a wall between them that he doesn’t know how to climb. He’s not sure if Steve built it or if he did.

“Don’t forget to write,” says Bucky finally, shouldering his rucksack. “And for god’s sake, Rogers, keep out of trouble.”

Steve nods, face pinched like he might cry. The look in his eyes gives Bucky a terrible sense of urgency. Something must be said, or done, or he might never get the chance again. He can feel the lies and half-truths strung between them like spider’s silk, binding them together, keeping them apart at the same time. Bucky finds he doesn’t have the words.

“Stay safe, Buck.”

He swallows, forcing a smile.

“I’ll be home before you know it.”

 Steve gives him a rough, one-armed hug. Bucky’s heart feels heavy as a stone. He gives Steve one last, long look, and clumps down the stairs toward another life.

 

*

 

 


	2. War

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you SO much to everyone who left love on the first chapter, it means everything to me. You guys are the reason I post this stuff at all instead of letting it fester on my hard drive for eternity lmao <3

It's Christmas Eve on the Western Front. Bucky leans back on his elbows, cold and drowsy as the sunset fades into purple smoke over the Dolomites.

“Is it just me, or do these so-called holiday rations seem exactly the same as usual?” gripes Cohen with a spoon in his mouth.

“Didn’t you notice the extra chocolate square?” asks Bucky, dropping his heels onto the edge of the fire.

“That’s all we get? Bullshit.”

“What’d you expect? Merry fuckin’ Christmas.”

“All I want for Christmas is to get this goddamn fight over with,” grumbles Dugan. “We been out here for days.”

“They’re gonna bring it to us if we don’t get a move on,” says Jones, glancing at Bucky. “What do you think, Sarge?”

“I think it ain’t up to us, one way or another.”

“What a pity.”

“Ain’t _no_ way they marched through that blizzard,” says Cohen knowledgeably, tearing open his second foil-wrapped chocolate. “We could barely see. They’re German, they ain’t super men.”

“I sure fuckin’ hope not.”

“ _Die Ubermensch,_ ” says Jones ominously, in his movie narrator voice.

“Bless you.”

Manelli pops a match with his thumbnail and touches it to the drooping end of his cigarette.

“They’re crazy fuckers. Who knows what they’d do?”

“We’ll get the drop on them,” says Bucky with more certainty than he feels.

He wants to get it over with, too. The march is always the worst part. It’s the anticipation, the crackle of tension in the air, the deadly uncertainty.

But he feels alright at the moment. He’s got a mostly full belly and a letter from Steve that he’s been saving for over a week. It’s Christmas, and the last thing he wants to think about is some steely-eyed German _Ubermensch_ trekking through a whiteout.

“If you say so, Sarge.”

“I ain’t letting no German get the drop on _me_ ,” says Cohen confidently.

“Like you got a choice, Izzy.”

Jones pulls his cap down over his eyes and lays his boots in the fire next to Bucky’s. Next to him, Dugan’s carving a shapeless block of wood into a smaller and even more shapeless block. Manelli eyes it dubiously.

“What the fuck is that supposed to be, anyway?”

“A horse, dumbass.”

“A horse? Where’s its legs?”

“I’m workin’ on em.”

“Where’s its _head_?”

“Up your ass, Dino,” says Dum Dum cheerfully without looking up. “Oh wait, that’s _your_ head up there.”

Bucky snorts a laugh.

“Yeah, well, I’m offended for horses everywhere,” says Manelli, flicking ash into the fire. “You oughta put that thing out of its misery.”

“What if we all shut up for a few minutes?” suggests Jones hopefully. “Maybe let a guy grab a nap?”

“You know they’re medically incapable of that,” says Bucky, turning the envelope over in his hand.

He settles back into the frozen dirt, getting comfortable. The evening echoes with the laughter and curses of other soldiers up and down the line. The postmark on Steve’s letter says October 21.

“Letter from your girl, Sarge?”

“Lay off, Izzy,” says Bucky, dodging Cohen’s half-hearted attempt to swipe it.

“What’s her name?”

“You don’t know her.”

Izzy pretends to gag.

“You’re right. I wouldn’t touch a Bensonhurst girl if she paid me.”

“Like any girl would pay for that,” says Bucky. “Little Carnarsie shit-bird like you? Keep your day job.”

“You’re just sore that we used to grind your faces in the dirt every spring. You know how many homeruns I hit in ’38?”

“I’m very sure you’re about to tell us,” says Manelli.

“Twenty-two, and woulda been more if my ankle didn’t give out.”

“You’re still ugly,” says Bucky wisely.

“Can’t you Brooklyn assholes shut up for five goddamn minutes?” Rebel flops down next to Manelli, pushing his hair out of his face. “Y’know, New York ain’t shit. While you two was playing baseball and fixing your hair, I was doing man’s work.”

“Man’s work?”

“Like the good Lord intended.”

“Oh Christ, now you’ve done it,” groans Manelli. “Bluegrass over here is gonna give us another lesson on farming.”

“Don’t call me that!”

“What are you gonna do, play your harmonica at me?”

“Any of you fuckers ever castrated a calf?”

“No, because we grew up civilized.”

“That’s what I thought. Bunch of soft boys.”

“You ain’t a cowboy, Rebel, no matter what your mammy told you.”

“My mammy could get a coyote between the eyes from two miles off,” says Rebel, leaning back. The rising moon shines silver on his blond head.

“Bet I could beat that,” Bucky remarks.

“Well she didn’t have no fancy sniper rifle, did she, Barnes?”

“Tell you what,” says Bucky. “After the war, I’ll come visit and your mam can give me a run for my money.”

“Plus anything else she wants to give ya, right Sarge?”

Manelli holds his hand up for a high-five.

“Shut the fuck up, man! Don’t talk about my mam like that!”

“Women have needs, Rebel,” says Bucky sagely. “Don’t get so offended.”

“It’s just nature. It’s biology.”

“See? Even Izzy knows how it works.”

“The fuck you mean, _even_ me?”

“You’re all disgusting,” says Rebel, ripping his K-rations open savagely. “You all need church.”

“Aw, we’re just teasing.”

“Hey, there’s extra chocolate in here!”

“No shit.”

“The good Lord don’t want you eating no extra chocolate, Rebel. Better hand it over.”

“Fuck off, you already ate yours!”

Bucky rolls his eyes. He carefully slits open the top of the envelope with his butterfly knife. A card falls out into the dirt and Bucky picks it up. It’s a little pencil drawing of the Hollywood sign.

“Aw, she sent him a picture!”

“Is it sexy?”

“Show us, Sarge!”

Bucky tucks it back into the envelope before anyone can see.

“That’s classified,” he says primly, ignoring their groans.

The letter is three pages, front and back.

 _Dear Bucky_ , it says in Steve’s neat scribbles.

_You won’t believe it, but I’m in California right now! Hollywood to be exact. It’s sunny here and warm as heck, but I think often of home, smelly and crowded as it is. I imagine you’re thinking the same thing, wherever you are._

Bucky looks up at the snow-capped mountains. What the hell is Steve doing in California?

“Gimme a cig.”

“Fuck off, I ain’t got any.”

“You do too, I see em in your pocket right now.”

“Let me clarify, bud. I ain’t got any for _you_.”

“Here,” says Bucky, pulling the cigarette out from behind his ear and handing it to Izzy. “Now both of you shut the fuck up and let me read.”

“Sir, yes sir!”

_I’m sure you won’t believe it until you see for yourself, but I’m going to be in a movie! Not sure why anyone wants my ugly mug on film, but at least I’m getting paid pretty good. According to the director, I am hopeless and not cut out for an actor’s life. Can’t say I’m too torn up about that._

A fuckin’ movie? Whatever he’d expected after not hearing from Steve for months, it certainly wasn’t this.

_I’ve been travelling a lot, which gives me a lot of time for drawing – can you tell?_

It’s obvious. Clever little doodles dance through the margins – a towering palm tree, a trio of exasperated showgirls, a sweet-eyed tabby cat. Bucky touches the paper with the pads of his thumbs, the places where Steve’s fingers must’ve held it down.

_People here are not like our people. Back home you know straightaway when someone doesn’t like you. People here are real nice to your face, but they can’t even wait ‘til you’re out the door to start complaining about you. Some of the girls are nice though. Very pretty and very modern. You’d have them eating out of your hand, I’m sure._

_There’s one girl in particular who seems to like me a lot. Her name’s Bertha and she has curly hair and bright pink fingernails. She likes to sit next to me and watch me draw. She smells really good and I can’t say I enjoy the attention. It makes me too nervous and then I can’t concentrate!_

Bucky smiles helplessly, squeezing his eyes shut. A blurry, unbearable tenderness floods the back of his throat. He longs for the lumpy mattress, the scuffed wooden cabinets, the smell of fresh bread wafting down from Mrs. Mancini’s open window.

“You put that thing away right now or I swear I’ll stomp it flat,” Manelli threatens.

“Aw, come on! I ain’t played in days.”

“Yeah, and that’s been a blessing from heaven.”

Rebel flops onto his back, harmonica aloft over his mouth.

“I’m gonna throw it in the fire if you blow one note, Rebel. I swear to Christ.”

Rebel ignores him, launching into a nightmarish approximation of Home on the Range.

Bucky rolls his eyes and ignores all of them.

_Hope you’re all in one piece, Buck. I know you ain’t too religious but I still say the rosary for you every night. And I’m proud as hell. It feels silly to be prancing around in this dumb outfit when you’re over there with so many good men, risking your lives every day. I told Bertha about you yesterday and she said you sound very handsome and brave. So it turns out you can still steal ‘em away when you’re not even here – now that’s a talent!_

A small scuffle breaks out between Dino and Rebel.

“Quit it,” says Jones from under his cap, irritated. “Are you guys twelve years old, or what?”

_Anyways I hope you’re getting enough to eat and haven’t suffered any major traumas, only minor (joke!!) I know you asked for Chesterfields and I couldn’t find any in the shop here so I hope Luckies are ok instead. Everyone in California smokes them, so they’re probably awful. Sorry. Maybe once you get home we can take a trip out here to the West. It’s beautiful. I know you always said you wanted to see the desert, and_

Pop-pop-pop!

“Oh fuck!”

“What was that?”

“Incoming! Everybody get down!”

Jones shoots up, dragging Rebel and Manelli behind the cover wall. Everyone scrambles for cover. Bucky throws himself behind the wall with Jones, and quickly fires off a few desperate return shots.

“Son of a bitch,” he breathes.

“Is this the battle?”

“That, or someone’s gone completely batshit crazy to attack us like this.”

Bucky raises his binoculars. He scans the silvery-dark fields, the shadowy tree line. There’s no oncoming army. He cocks his rifle, continuing to skim. They must be here somewhere.

Finally, he sees the glint of a silver Luger and zeroes in. They’re just thirty meters away, two scouts in the trees, and three on the ground. They have what looks like a machine gun, but it’s enormous. Bucky squints at it, confused. Is he seeing things? None of this makes any sense.

He shakes his head to clear it. They can figure it out later.

“Five, one o clock,” he says to Jones, low. “Let’s drop ‘em.”

“Heard.”

They wait out the spray of fire. Someone screams in the next camp over. Then Bucky inhales deeply and springs up, firing between heartbeats.

He gets two in the trees, one of the gunners and then goes wide. Jones gets the other two.

For a few seconds, the night is eerily, abominably silent. Then Bucky’s ears clear and he hears the shouting up the hill, the barked orders.

He peers into the darkness through his binoculars.

“Clear. For now, anyway.”

Dum Dum whistles.

“Shit on a stick! Some Christmas present.”

Their field radio crackles into life, instructing all platoons to push east through the night.

Manelli groans.

“Seriously?”

“You heard the man,” says Bucky, expertly keeping the resignation out of his voice. “Pack up.”

They tear down the camp they just set up two hours ago. Dugan makes everyone laugh by confiscating Rebel’s harmonica, claiming it put the squad in danger by attracting enemy fire.

But Bucky’s good mood has dissipated like smoke in the cold air.

Last week, one of his own bled out on the frozen ground because Bucky wasn’t fast enough. He was a goddamn kid, barely twenty years old. They didn’t even have time to dig a proper grave. Something doesn’t feel right about this.

_I know you always said you wanted to see the desert –_

“Listen up, fellas.”

Their faces turn toward him, haggard and exhausted.

“I know this ain’t Christmas at the Rockefeller. But we ain't dead yet. And there’s no bunch of assholes I’d rather stay alive with than you jerks. You’re the real deal.”

“Damn right,” says Jones, slinging an arm over Bucky’s shoulders.

“Those fuckers are gonna be sorry they shot at us.”

“Hell yeah!”

Jones throws his head back and releases a long, wolfish howl into the night. Manelli follows suit, and then Dugan, and the rest of the boys, yipping and howling at the crescent moon. Bucky shrieks his own war whoop into the night. It’s eerie as hell, and he hopes it scares the shit out of anyone else lurking in the forest.

He’s still watching the dark trees through his scope when Jones comes up next to him.

“Anything?”

“Quiet as a grave.”

A night bird sings overhead, sweet and surprising. Bucky’s grip on his rifle tightens.

“We’re ready to go, Sarge.”

Bucky stands up, but he doesn’t want to take his eyes off of the trees.

“Does this feel weird to you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why would they go after us like that? Five guys shooting at a whole goddamn regiment? How did they even _find_ us? And what the fuck was that giant gun they had?”

Jones doesn’t say anything for a moment.

“I don’t know,” he says finally. “It doesn’t make any sense.”

Bucky sighs.

“Maybe I’m just being paranoid.”

“No, you’re not. I got a bad feeling about this, too.”

“I just don’t want to lose anybody else.”

They’re quiet for a minute, looking into the shadows together. Then Jones touches his arm, just under his elbow. Bucky looks sideways at him. His skin shines blue and beautiful in the moonlight, eyes kind.

“What happened to Junior wasn’t your fault, Buck. It wasn’t anybody’s fault.”

Bucky stares hard at the forest again. He wants a target, a mission. He doesn’t want to talk about Junior.

“It _wasn’t_ ,” says Jones again, quiet and ferocious.

“I know,” says Bucky, gutted. “Come on, Gabe. Let’s just go.”

“Hey, hold up one second. You said it yourself. Whatever’s behind us, whatever’s ahead of us, we’re here right now. We’re alive, ain’t we?”

Bucky exhales hard.

“Yeah.”

“Come on, say it.”

“We’re alive.”

“Fuck yeah we are,” says Jones, face breaking into a wide grin. He delivers Bucky a punch on the shoulder, and then a hard one-armed hug. “Come on, man. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

 

*

 

Unfortunately, they don’t make it very far.

 

*

 

Bucky wakes up disoriented and coughing. For a few seconds he’s back at home, struggling into consciousness in the bleary Brooklyn sunlight. There are bars of shadow falling across his face from the fire escape outside.

Then his vision clears and the bars turn into prison steel. Bucky realizes he’s clenching his fists so hard that this nails have dug bloody crescents into his palms.

He struggles to his feet and spits a mouthful of blood onto the concrete floor.

“You okay, Sarge?”

“Peachy.” He touches the hot, swollen mess of his left cheek. “How bad’s my face?”

“It’s alright,” says Jones dubiously.

“You ain’t gonna star in no movies for awhile, that’s for sure,” says Dugan.

“Their loss.”

“Now who’s the ugly one, Carey Price?”

“Can it, Izzy. Still prettier than you by a mile.”

He doesn’t know how long they’ve been here. Time passes implacably with the clicking of boots overhead, the shuffling path between work station and cell and back again. Bucky knows he’s sick. One day his vision goes suddenly dark and he lurches forward onto the worktable.

The prisoner next to him pulls him up, face lurching and swimming in Bucky’s feverish gaze. Straight black hair and quick, gentle eyes.

“Just keep your eyes down while he goes past.”

They wait it out.

“Okay, he’s gone.”

Bucky slumps forward onto his elbows, the metal pieces in front of him going in and out of focus.

“Thanks,” he says, drained. “I owe you one.”

“Jim Morita.”

“Bucky Barnes.”

“Nice to know you, Bucky.”

Back in the cell, he dreams of salt water and wood splinters in his palms, of Steve’s sharp cold nose in the hollow of his throat. He thinks he must be dying, but he can’t seem to actually do it.

A masked guard raps his baton on the bars.

“Look alive, boys,” says Falsworth in a low voice.

“Stand up, dogs!”

He smacks the bars again. Bucky’s ears ring. Jones helps him to his feet. He sways with fever, trying to focus.

“You,” says one of the guards, pointing at Jones. “Step forward. Come with us.”

Jones swallows. Bucky grips his arm, holding him back.

“Gabe, no.”

“I have to.”

“Come with us, or we shoot you all,” threatens the other guard in a heavy German accent.

“Take me,” says Bucky. He struggles to remain upright. “I’ll go.”

Jones catches his arm.

“No fuckin’ way,” he hisses into Bucky’s ear. “I’m not letting you do that.”

Bucky smiles up at him.

“Last I checked, I outrank you.”

“Nobody comes back from there,” says Morita, horrified.

“Just hold out until the Americans get here. They’re coming. They must be.”

“Enough chatter, dogs!”

The door clanks open. Gabe’s eyes shine with unshed tears. He gives an almost imperceptible nod, and Bucky nods back.

One of the guards yanks Bucky away by his bad arm. He grits his teeth.

“Give em hell, Sarge!” Izzy yells, and it echoes down the hall as they pull him around the corner.

“I’ll be back in a few,” he tries to call back, but the words stick in his throat like he’s drunk. His feet stumble along the concrete floor as the two guards drag him along.

They manhandle him into a dark room with a padded operating table. There’s a little window to the left, and as they shove him down onto the table, Bucky notices that it’s nighttime. He can even see a few stars.

Then they push his head back. One of the guards straps him down and the other rolls up his tattered sleeve to give him a shot in the tender crook of his elbow.

_Give em hell, Sarge!_

Bucky locks everything sacred deep inside his heart. It doesn’t matter what they do to him. He’s not talking. He may not be brave like Steve, or cool-headed like Jones, or smart like his sisters. But he’s stubborn, and he can take pain.

The guards leave. It’s strange to be alone after so many months of constant, relentless companionship. The room smells sharp and sterile, like the doctor’s office he used to drag Steve into when his cough got especially bad.

Bucky tries to look out the window again, but his head feels heavy as a boulder.

From behind him, shuffling footsteps come closer and closer.

Then the door swings open.

“Good evening, my America friend,” says a thick German accent. “They tell me you have volunteered. I am very impressed!”

Bucky doesn’t respond. He’s thinking about Steve in Hollywood, gazing up at the palm trees in wonder. The hot California air is probably good for his lungs. Is he drinking Coke right out of the bottle? Will he cry when he gets the telegram saying Bucky ain’t coming home?

“Hold still,” says the German cheerfully. “But that shouldn’t be a problem, should it?”

Bucky can’t turn his head. He can’t even wiggle his fingers. His body is made of lead. He hears the soft clink of metal on metal. The man massages something noxious and sticky onto Bucky’s temples.

He feels a twinge of fear. What are they going to do to him?

“Sergeant James Barnes,” he says, thick but audible. His voice doesn’t shake. “32557038.”

The man chuckles merrily.

“How pleasant to make your acquaintance, Sergeant Barnes. I am Dr. Zola.”

He presses a pad onto each of Bucky’s temples, and then strings a complicated series of wires to some kind of large, metal machine overhead.

Dr. Zola finally comes into view. He checks the straps around Bucky’s arms, tightening the one around his waist. He’s short, bald, wearing round glasses and a white lab coat.

“I think we will make some wonderful discoveries together, wouldn’t you agree?”

Bucky tries to say his number again, but he can’t seem to get enough air into his lungs. He might as well be a stone statue.

Dr. Zola flicks a very large syringe, squirting a little of the clear liquid out of the top. Bucky’s stomach revolts, and he closes his eyes.

“Hold still, Sergeant Barnes,” says the doctor. The point of the needle presses against the side of Bucky’s neck. “This might sting a little.”

 

*

 

The official report by the United States Army states that Bucky spent a little over five days in the isolation ward. He nods when they tell him how long he was strapped down, as though he remembers. As though, after that first terrible night, time still had meaning.

 

*

 

In the dream, Bucky’s on the table and they’re cutting into the soles of his feet. The dirty rag in his mouth makes it hard to breathe. His stomach churns, hot and sour.

“Almost done,” says Dr. Zola with terrible joviality.

Fingers on his neck, taking his pulse. The scratching of a pen on paper. The pain is relentless, digging through him like a virus, taking him over piece by piece. A hand wraps implacably around his throat.

“Shut up and take it, slut. Guys like you are only good for one thing.”

Bucky holds still. It’s much worse when he struggles.

“Beautiful,” breathes a deep, terrifying voice from behind him.

“He’s survived much longer than the others,” says Zola with pride. “What do you think?”

“It’s remarkable.”

“Wouldn’t you say I am doing a good job?”

“Don’t fish for compliments, doctor.”

“Apologies, Herr Schmidt. I was not trying to—“

Hard footsteps on the tile floor.

A harsh command in German.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. He’s ready.”

Then comes the familiar whir of the machine, the terrible metallic grinding. Bucky closes his eyes, sick with pain and terror.  

Then, abruptly, it all stops.

He opens his eyes tentatively. He’s alone. He can see the little window, the stars outside. The gleaming silent machine sleeps overhead. He takes a deep breath, trying not to panic. He has to get out of here. Where’s Steve?

He can’t breathe through the rag in his mouth. It chokes him out, suffocating him slowly.

 

_Wake up!_

 

Bucky draws in a sharp, painful breath, gasping into consciousness.

Dark canvas overhead. Fresh, icy air in his lungs.

“Hey, Buck,” says Steve’s gentle voice from the mouth of a stranger.

Bucky jolts, thrashing a little, and Steve catches his shoulder.

“Hey, it’s okay. It’s just me.”

Reality slowly rearranges itself.

They’re in France, headed toward another HYDRA base. Steve’s big now. Everything’s okay.  Situation normal.

Bucky swallows, dry and painful.

“Was I talking in my sleep?”

“Yeah. Another nightmare?”

Bucky sits up, hair brushing the canvas as he gropes for his boots. There’s no room to spare in the pup tent with both of them.

“Do we need to move?”

“We have a few more hours. Go back to sleep, Buck. Get some rest.”

“I’m alright.”

“You’ve barely slept.”

“I said I’m alright,” says Bucky with too much edge. He can feel rather than see Steve’s penetrating gaze.

It’s been two weeks since Steve pulled Bucky off the table. Two weeks since they escaped a fiery death by the skin of their teeth. Two weeks, and sometimes Bucky still feels like he’s dreaming. What if none of this is real and he’s still strapped down, needles in his arms and hard rubber between his teeth?

“You okay?”

The day after the rescue, Bucky slept for sixteen hours. According to Gabe, Steve sat next to him for most of it, leaving only to get debriefed by Colonel Phillips. When he woke up, Bucky didn’t recognize him.

“Fine.”

On the second day, he thought he knew what was real. The Italian medic gave him weak tea and dry crackers. Someone told him his fever was down, and someone else thanked him for his service. Then the pompous American doctor came in with his clipboard, trying to get Bucky to cry over what happened. Dead friends, torture, imprisonment.

Bucky didn’t flinch. They’re in a fucking war. Who is he to fall apart over a little bit of pain? The doctor gave him a journal. Bucky hasn’t touched it.

“Are you sure?”

On the third day, they were shipped to London as a treat, and Bucky drank like he might not live through the night.

Now, two weeks later, they’re back at war.

“It was just a dumb dream.”

“Yeah? What was it about?”

“I don’t remember.”

“That’s gotta be a first,” says Steve, smiling. “You wouldn’t shut up when you dreamed Greta Garbo slapped you across the face.”

“Yeah, well, that was a special occasion.”

When Steve smiles, he looks like himself again.

“You don’t gotta talk about it.”

Bucky chews his thumbnail.

“Who’s on watch?”

“Me.”

“You ain’t getting much watching done from in here,” says Bucky, pushing past Steve to shimmy out of the small opening in the tent. Steve follows him, squeezing out. He unfolds his obscenely long limbs. Bucky laces his boots up too tight, feeling nauseous.

“You’re relieved, Cap. I’ll take the next shift.”

Steve doesn’t budge.

“You think I need a babysitter?” Bucky asks, annoyed.

“No.”

“Then go to bed.”

“You think you get to tell me what to do?”

“Suit yourself.”

It’s a cold, clear night, stars hanging like ice chips in the black sky. Steve sits down across the fire. The silence stretches out like mist over a dark river.

It’s almost calming, and Bucky makes the mistake of closing his eyes for a few seconds. Immediately he’s assaulted by the familiar slew of nightmares – spider-thin cracks in the water-stained ceiling, the rag in his mouth, the poisonous mechanical whirring.

He breathes through it. Steve’s propped back on his elbows, face shadowed. If Bucky doesn’t look too closely, he doesn’t recognize him. He’s an advertisement for war, the perfect fighter. Captain America, the man with a plan whose likeness Bucky once used as kindling for a campfire just outside of Luxembourg.

Deep down, in a place too upsetting to examine closely, Bucky worries that he doesn’t know this new version of Steve.

“You alright, pal?”

“Dandy.”

“You got a good group here,” says Steve after a few minutes.

“Yeah, they’re alright.”

“They really love you,” says Steve, smiling. “Not that I’m surprised.”

Bucky doesn’t know what to say to that. Nobody knows the truth about him, except for the devil inside. He stares into the licking flames, trying to remember how he might’ve answered back in New York.

“Gabe said what you did for him.”

“So what?”

“So, I told you so. You’re a hero.”

“It wasn’t nothing,” says Bucky, clenching his hands together against the cold. “I ain’t a hero for it.”

There’s a long, thick silence. Big flakes of snow flutter down, settling feather-light and fluffy over the camp.

“Bucky –“

“What?”

“Why won’t you just – talk to me?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You barely said two words to me at once since I got here,” says Steve stubbornly.

“That ain’t true.”

“You got some problem with me? Is it because of the serum?”

“No! I’m glad about it. You finally got the fists to match your attitude.”

“Then why?”

“I don’t _know_ ,” Bucky snaps, desperate.

“Did I do something wrong?”

“No.” He pauses, clenching his hands together so hard his fingers start to go numb. “It’s – me. I’m wrong.”

“What do you mean?”

Bucky shakes his head, at a loss. Since the lab he’s preferred darkness, silence. Everything is too big, too bright, too much. Steve most of all.

“I’m not trying to be a pain. I just – I missed you, Bucky. I really thought I lost you.”

“Well here I am,” says Bucky colorlessly.

Steve gives him a long look, then shakes his head and looks up at the stars.

The fire burns down as the moon moves across the sky. It’s still snowing, thick and soft.

“Bucky?”

“Yeah?”

He braces himself for more questions.

“Remember that winter when it snowed so bad the fire escape fell down?”

It comes back to him easily, although he hasn’t thought of it in years. Icy wind rattling the windowpane, knee-deep snow, Steve’s hacking cough and fever so high Bucky wasn’t sure he’d make it through the night.

“Yeah,” he says, surprised, vulnerable. “What was that, ’39?”

“Must’ve been.”

Steve’s eyes close, faraway and dreamy.

“What a winter.”

“I thought you were a goner for sure.”

“You did?”

Bucky clears his throat, unsure. But the words come easily.

“I couldn’t even fall asleep. I was so scared I’d wake up and find you dead.”

“You never told me that.”

“Didn’t seem like something you tell a person.”

The wind howls through the trees. Steve leans back on his elbows, looking at the sky.

“I remember how you sang.”

Bucky’s chest goes tight as a drum.

“You do?”

“Everything hurt. I couldn’t tell what was real and what was just in my head. But I heard you singing, and it made me think things were alright.”

The memory engulfs him, sharp and stinging. Steve with the covers up to his chin, eyes fever-bright and unseeing, teeth clacking as he shivered. Bucky dragged in a kitchen chair and tried to read a detective story but couldn’t get past the first paragraph. He kept reading the same words over and over.

Around midnight, he’d gone to refill the stove but his hands weren’t working right and he dropped wood all over the floor. For a few minutes he just stared at it, frozen, tears blurring his vision. He couldn’t catch his breath. He held onto the edge of the counter, cold with dread.

But Steve needed him to fill the stove.

He sang as he picked up the wood, trying to keep the tremble out of his voice.

“I didn’t know you remembered that.”

“I’ll never forget it.”

Steve tips his head back and sings softly, “They’re writing songs of love, but not for me . . . a lucky star’s above, but not for me . . .”

His voice spills low and clear over the still night. Bucky holds his breath, afraid he’s going to wake up any moment.

The snow has transformed the land around them, turning everything white and alien. The moon shines high overhead like a bright eye. Listening to Steve’s husky voice, Bucky gets the eerie sense that they’re the only two people left in the world. Just the two of them, sitting together outside of time.

“With love to lead the way, I found more skies of grey, then any Russian play could guarantee . . .”

“Stevie,” Bucky can’t keep his voice from shaking. “I’m sorry, okay?”

“Don’t be sorry, just – c’mere.”

Bucky lurches forward and Steve grabs his forearms, pulling him into a rough hug. His strength is still such a shock. Bucky’s heart cracks a little, and then out of it pours a great rush of color.

“It’s just me, Bucky.”

And so it is. Little spitfire Stevie from the apartment upstairs, who shared his comics and taught him how to pick a lock and couldn’t keep his gigantic mouth shut for love or money. His brother, his best friend, his first and only love.

Bucky sinks beneath a deadly wave of emotion, cheek pushed between stubble and cold leather.

“We’re in this together,” says Steve fiercely.

Bucky can’t answer. _He’s lying_ , says the dark, sharp mouth inside his head. _You know he’s just saying that to make you feel better._ He doesn’t know how to close it back up. He grits his teeth and pushes his face harder against Steve’s.

“I got you, Buck,” Steve whispers.

His arms are so strong. Everything drains away until it’s just the two of them, smoky hair, frozen eyelashes. For a moment or two, Bucky remembers how to breathe.

 

*

 

Weeks stretch into months. Bucky learns to wield his new, poisonous anger like a weapon, sharpening it along with the knives in his belt, stuffing it down the barrel of his rifle. His kill count skyrockets. He’s doing it for Steve.

“Those sons of bitches never stood a chance,” says Jones, one bright spring day after a particularly decisive win.

“May their spirits go fuck themselves,” says Bucky solemnly.

“They can build tanks as big as they fuckin’ want, but they ain’t got Bucky Barnes. Deadliest shot on the Western front.”

“Aw, quit it. You’re making me blush.”

“With all due respect, sir, you fuckin’ love it,” says Jones, and puts him in a headlock. They tussle for a few seconds until Jones comes out on top, grinding his fist affectionately into Bucky’s hair.

“Sweet Sergeant Barnes. Crown jewel of the Special Corps. All the guys wanna be him, and all the ladies wanna take him home.”

“I’m gonna knock you out, Jones.”

“It would be my greatest honor.”

“Fuck off,” says Bucky, breathless, laughing.

“Is that an order, Sarge?”

From across the camp, Steve looks up and smiles at them.

“Yeah, it is,” he says, getting up and brushing the dirt off his knees. “And while you’re at it, go tell Captain Rogers that those logs ain’t gonna –“

Before he can finish his sentence, Steve’s lopsided attempt at a campfire collapses into his lap. Bucky and Jones double over with laughter.

“Interesting technique.”

“I think he needs your gentle guidance, Gabe.”

“Sir, yes sir!” barks Jones, and goes over to harass Steve.

Bucky squats down to set up his tent, watching them out of the corner of his eye. The weather gets milder by the day, and lately little flowers have begun to sprout up everywhere. It seems unfathomable that they could’ve spent two weeks last month shivering in foxholes, getting snowed on and shot at.

“How’s that fire coming, Rogers?”

“Five minutes,” shouts Steve, harried.

“Captain America, ladies,” says Dugan with a grin. He’s peeling potatoes for dinner, and pauses to scratch his mustache with the knifepoint.

“Soldier, those potatoes look like shit. Are we supposed to eat that?”

Dugan flings a slimy peel at him.

“You’ll eat it and you’ll like it.”

“That’s what your girl said last time I saw her,” says Manelli, holding out his hand for a high-five. Bucky slaps it automatically. Dugan gives them the finger.

Morita jabs his pencil at them. He’s stretched out with the same cheap, clothbound journal the doctor gave to Bucky.

“Can’t you jerks keep it down for five goddamn minutes? I’m trying to write here.”

“You know damn well they can’t,” says Bucky.

“Didn’t realize this was fuckin’ study hour.”

“Why don’t you study my ass?”

“You say that like I ain’t been doing it for weeks already.”

“Get bent, Dino.”

Bucky considers his own journal, still blank at the bottom of his rucksack. Maybe it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world to write a thing or two. As long as he never had to show it to anybody.

He hammers the last stake into the half-thawed ground. A little blue flower peeks up bravely in the upturned dirt. He touches one of the petals gently with his index finger, amazed that something so bright and tender could grow here.

Then he’s on his back, dizzy and winded, staring up at the puffy clouds.

The world swims in and out of focus. Shouts, gunshots, an explosion of dark birds scattering every which way through his field of vision. He smells blood and fresh earth. The world gets a little hazy around the edges.

“Keep still, man, you’re okay,” says Jones, ashen-faced, looming over him. His sleeves are rolled up, bloody wrists, hands over Bucky’s stomach.

“Fuck, am I hit?”

His tongue feels thick and wrong. The words don’t come out right.

Then it’s Steve overhead. He tries to get up again – he’s the goddamn sergeant, for Christ’s sake – but Steve presses him back down so hard it knocks the wind out of him.

“Stay _down_ , Buck – we need –“

Bucky blinks and he’s gone too. Now it’s Morita, pressing a pad to his belly and helping him up. Dino’s on his left, or maybe Izzy. He can’t see a goddamn thing. They stagger into the trees. Bucky wonders if he’s dying.

“You ain’t dyin’, Sarge. Not today. One more step.”

He’s on his back again. Someone slides a strap into his mouth, and then a burst of pain cleaves through him from hip to ribcage. His vision goes sick and swimmy.

“Just another minute. I know it hurts.”

He bites down hard on the belt. He’s light-headed, shaky, teetering on the edge of some very high cliff. He can’t catch his breath no matter how hard he tries to inhale.

“Stay with me, Buck,” says Steve, terrified.

 _It’s better this way_ , thinks Bucky, and a deep calm washes over him.

Truth be told, he never expected to live through this goddamn war anyway. It’s almost a relief to finally get it over with.

“Stevie,” he says, and smiles. Steve’s ashen face gets smaller and smaller.

Bucky floats up and up like a lost balloon, muddy boots skimming the tops of the bare branches. He can see the dark countryside stretched out like a wide grassy blanket, the shadowy hills, the billowing cornfields, the thin pillar of smoke rising from the mountains.

The stars gather into a shining tapestry right above him, bright and glittering. He can _hear_ them. They’re singing.

“Shit,” says someone from very, very far away. “He’s losing too much blood.”

It’s road made of stars, stretching out into infinity right before his eyes. Bucky’s heart leaps. Is this finally a place where he belongs? It beckons to him, a swirling, glimmering vortex.

He takes a step forward.

It’s like falling through a rotten floorboard. He’s rocketed back down through the trees, thumping into his body on the cold ground, white-hot pain up and down his spine, into the very tips of his fingers. He’s on fire. He can’t even scream.

“Got it,” says Morita through a long tunnel.

Then it all goes dark.

 

He gasps into consciousness like a diver coming up from the depths of some black, cursed lake. His body feels stiff and strange. Everything hurts.

The first thing he sees is Gabe rubbing his eyes.

“Man, I’m glad as hell to see you.”

“The squad,” says Bucky, shaky. Aren’t they in a firefight? What’s happening?

“Everyone’s fine,” says Steve, next to Jones. He’s smoking a cigarette, which makes Bucky wonder if he’s still dreaming. “Someone tried to ambush us, but we came out on top.”

“Really bad idea,” agrees Jones. “You don’t fuck with our sergeant and walk out alive.” He’s smiling, gently touching Bucky’s shoulder. “How do you feel, Buck?”

“Like shit,” Bucky croaks honestly. “Gimme one of those cigarettes.”

Jones shakes one out and lights it for him. Bucky struggles into a sitting position, wincing.

“Where are we?”

“Two miles west,” says Steve. “You don’t remember the walk?”

Bucky shakes his head silently.

“You guys saved my life.”

“Not me. Morita did all the dirty work,” says Jones, and jerks his thumb at Steve. “Plus that one practically carried you here.”

“Don’t tell him that,” says Steve, pained. “Next he’ll want to be carried everywhere.”

The cigarette is helping. He feels calmer with each exhale.

“Maybe you guys can make me one of them little carts. Like for princesses.”

Goddamn, his entire body hurts.

“A palanquin?”

“How do you _know_ that?”

“I dunno. I used to read a lot."

“Yeah, make me a pelican. I wanna be carried around for the rest of the war.”

“You gonna turn into a princess?”

“He’s always been a princess,” says Steve, and their laughter floats up into the night.

Bucky hurts, but he’s alive, and right now that feels like enough of a miracle.

 

*

 

One week later, they’re back at field HQ and the bullet hole is gone.

Alone in his bunk, Bucky stares at the puckered ridges of the scar with sick, controlled panic.

It’s not possible.

He must be hallucinating. All he has to do is touch it, and then he’ll know for sure. But his hand shakes, fingers refusing to do what he wants.

Instead, he rips the old bandage the rest of the way off. It’s still a little bloody. He takes a few deep breaths. Then he tapes on a new one and wraps a few loops of gauze around his belly to hold it in place.

The facts are as follows:

  1. Some unlucky HYDRA shithead shot him in the gut while they were making camp outside Grenoble.
  2. Morita dug it out and stitched him up, and he almost bled out in the process.
  3. It hurt like a fucking _bitch,_ and he barely sleeps anymore for the pain _._ In fact, last night was the first time in a week that he's actually managed a few hours of sleep.



It’s simply not possible.

Bucky runs his fingers gently over the gauze. His skin prickles but doesn’t hurt. The stiffness is gone. The bandage seems blindingly, offensively white.

Chattering soldiers line up outside for breakfast. He hears the unmistakable wail of Rebel’s harmonica in the mix. Bucky feels like he might as well be on another planet.

He meets his own eyes in the mirror and takes a deep breath. He’s pale as a ghost. A swell of nausea rises in his throat.

What in God’s name is wrong with him?

“Morning,” says someone from the doorway.

Bucky jumps. It’s Steve, fresh-faced and sheepish.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“It’s okay,” says Bucky, strangled. He clears his throat. “What’s up?”

“When you get a minute, Phillips needs your input.”

“My input? What for?”

“I don’t know. Something about those guns we found. I got kicked out. Apparently I’m half as useful as a chorus girl and twice as ugly.”

“Aw, that ain’t fair,” says Bucky, keeping his voice steady. “I’d say you’re at least three-fourths the usefulness. Can’t sing for shit, but you look great in tights.”

Steve chuckles.

“I don’t know if that’s the word I’d use.” He eyes the fresh tape job on Bucky’s bandages. “How’s it feeling today?”

“Alright.”

Bucky turns away, suddenly hyperaware of Steve’s sharp eyes. He pulls on a shirt and starts buttoning it up from the bottom.

“You sure? If it’s hurting, maybe you oughta go down to the med tent.”

“Quit pecking around like a mother hen, Rogers. I’m fine.”

“You ain’t fine, you got shot!”

“It’s a war. That’s what happens.”

Steve frowns.

“You don’t have to act so tough.”

“I’m not acting tough. Just leave it alone, Steve.”

Steve narrows his eyes.

“What’s going on with you?”

“Nothing! What are you talking about?”

“You’re acting weird.”

“Didn’t you say Phillips wants me?”

Bucky tries to brush past him, but Steve catches him by the forearm.

“Bucky, wait —“

“Let go of me!”

Bucky surprises both of them with the venom in his voice. Steve drops his arm like he’s been burnt, and Bucky immediately feels like shit.

“I’m sorry,” he says, clumsy. “I didn’t mean to – sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, just tell me what’s going on.”

Bucky scrubs a hand over his face.

“How many times do I gotta say, it’s nothing?”

“Bullshit!”

Bucky recoils. Steve’s glaring at him.

“I’m sick of you hiding things from me, Bucky! I’m your best friend!”

Bucky’s chest gets tighter and tighter.

“Just tell me,” presses Steve, plaintive and deadly.

“I can’t,” says Bucky, pained.

“Why not?”

Steve’s looking at him with sad eyes and an angry mouth. Bucky drops his gaze. His voice comes out low and desperate.

“Because I don’t fucking _know_ what it is.”

“What do you mean?”

Bucky thinks about the nightmares, the dark sharp-toothed mouth festering in his heart, growing wider and hungrier each day. He sees the pink, fresh scar on his belly.

“Bucky, talk to me.”

Maybe he should. Steve will tell him what’s real. And maybe it’s better to look the truth in the face than hide in the shadows. If it blinds him, if it kills him, then so be it. He never expected to live through this goddamn war anyway.

Slowly, he starts to unbutton his shirt from the bottom. His heart hammers. Steve’s eyebrows go up.

“What are you—?”

Then Agent Carter comes around the corner.

“Oh, there you are,” she says in her bright accent, red lips and shiny dark curls.

Bucky stiffens up, quickly tucking his shirt back in. She gives him an impassive look, but her lips quirk up when she sees Steve.

“Agent Carter,” he says, voice dipping a pitch or three. His back has gone ramrod straight.

“Captain Rogers.” Her voice is laced with amusement. “Enjoying the sunshine?”

“You bet, ma’am.”

She really is a knockout. Steve couldn’t have found himself a better girl than if he’d drawn her into life with his oil crayons.

“Sergeant Barnes?”

“Ma’am.”

“Colonel Phillips sent me to fetch you. I believe he has a few questions about those new HYDRA weapons you lot recovered last week.”

“Yes, ma’am,” says Bucky. He ducks his head and brushes past them.

“Wait, Bucky—“

“We’ll talk later,” Bucky calls over his shoulder, already knowing he’s not going to show Steve the scar. There’s no point. He leaves Steve to his new favorite activity: flirting incompetently with the equally awkward Agent Carter.

He doesn’t have a place in that closed circuit, anyway. And regardless of what’s happening under the bandage, or inside his head, he has a job to do.

 

*

 

Spring melts into summer. The Commandos rack up win after win, and Bucky drops body after body. There doesn’t seem to be anyone he can’t kill. It’s all he seems to be good for anymore.

They celebrate the French liberation in Paris, in a smoky bar packed with seemingly everyone in the city. The beer is free, but he can’t seem to get drunk no matter how much he drinks. A trio of beautiful, laughing girls sprayed them with champagne earlier, and his hair is still sticky.

Somehow, despite the crowd, Bucky still feels alone. He tries to ignore it, pushing against Steve’s elbow to make room for Dernier at the table.

“For my Sergeant,” says Dern grandly, handing him another overflowing pint.

“Thanks. I mean, _merci_.”

“This is madness, isn’t it?”

“I love it,” says Steve honestly. “The joy. The freedom. It’s incredible. This makes it all worth it, doesn’t it?”

“God damn right!”

Someone screams, “ _Liberté, égalité, fraternité!”_

A drunken roar goes up through the bar. Dernier drums on the table with both hands, sloshing his drink everywhere. Someone starts up a raucous version of La Marseillaise, and Dernier clambers up onto the bar, pulling Falsy with him.

“ _Allons enfants de la Patrie! Le jour de gloire est arrive!”_

“Madness,” Jones repeats, grinning.

“Go on, get up there,” says Steve. “I know you know this one.”

Jones laughs, a slice of white teeth.

“Nah, I’m gonna let them have their moment. When we get back to New York – that’ll be the real party.”

There’s lipstick smudged on Steve’s cheek from where some French girl launched herself at him earlier. The tips of his ears went red and Bucky had laughed himself stupid.

Bucky drinks too fast and gets dizzy. The crowd seems to press even closer, fingers and teeth and elbows everywhere. Jones says something that he doesn’t catch.

“I don’t know,” Steve’s saying thoughtfully. “Probably eat a hot dog with extra mustard.”

Jones bursts out laughing.

“What about you?”

“I’m going to the library to catch up on all the Raymond Chandler stories I probably missed.”

“Bucky likes him, don’t you, Buck?”

“Huh?”

Their smiling faces loom over him, stretching at all the wrong angles. Too big, too long, too many teeth. Bucky can’t seem to focus on anything but the excruciating details, pores and eyelashes and the lipstick kiss smudged low on Steve’s jaw. It all stands out with sick clarity.

“Raymond Chandler,” Steve repeats. “Your detective stories.”

“Oh. Right. Yeah, he’s great.”

“He used to read the same one over and over again, hoping it would make him smarter.”

“Did it work?”

It’s an easy one, a softball, something Steve’s teased him about for years. But Bucky can’t remember how he ought to respond.

“No,” he says finally. “Sure didn’t.”

Steve gives him a weird look, but doesn’t press it. Bucky drains the rest of his beer in one swallow.

“No kidding! We grew up about ten blocks from there,” Steve’s saying to Gabe.

“My moms used to say it was the most beautiful thing she ever saw.”

“I don’t know about that, but you’ll have to come down and see for yourself,” Steve says. “Me and Buck’ll cook you dinner.”

“Sounds good. No hot dogs, though. I can’t eat that salty shit.”

“I gotta get some air,” Bucky mumbles, slipping into the crowd before they can respond.

The night air feels cool and soothing on his overheated cheeks. The cobblestone street teems with people stumbling, laughing and singing in French. Flags flutter from the window of every apartment he passes.

Bucky wanders down the street, turning corners until he finds a quiet stretch with an empty bench along the river. Then he sits down and lights a cigarette.

The full moon hangs pale and heavy behind the Eiffel Tower. When he was younger, Bucky used to be wild about Paris. He would tell anyone who would listen (usually Steve or one of his sisters) that he was going to move there when he grew up and marry a French girl. He tries to summon that childhood joy but finds nothing. The room in his heart where it used to live lies as empty as their old apartment on 73rd Street.

Bucky’s known for awhile that there will be no return to that place. It’s impossible to imagine this new version of Steve among their tattered curtains and water-stained cabinets. It’s just as outlandish as Bucky marrying a French girl and popping out a few kids. It just ain’t on the table anymore.

“Hey, man,” says someone behind the bench. “This seat taken?”

Bucky twists around. Jones is grinning at him, drunk and happy with his shirtsleeves pushed up past his elbows. There’s lipstick on his collar. Bucky snorts a surprised laugh.

“I was savin’ it for you.”

“Well that’s _real_ kind of you, Sarge,” says Jones. “Because I think you might’ve found the best view in the city.”

He settles in next to Bucky.

“You didn’t have to leave,” says Bucky. “You were having fun.”

“Somebody had to make sure your drunk ass didn't fall in the river.”

“Aw, ain’t you a sweetheart,” says Bucky, embarrassed.

“I had an ulterior motive. The bartender gave me something too nice not to share.”

Jones holds up a hand-rolled cigarette that most definitely does not contain tobacco.

“Oh, damn,” says Bucky, surprised into a grin.

“Who else am I gonna split this with? Captain America?”

“Cap don’t smoke.”

“I know. He told me.”

“Well in that case,” says Bucky, pitching the rest of his cigarette into the street.

Gabe lights the joint with his Zippo, takes a drag and then hands it to Bucky.

“Steve’s worried about you. I told him to stay put and make sure Izzy stays conscious.”

Bucky rolls his eyes.

“Steve’s always worried about me.”

“Reminds me of my older brother. If I stayed out a minute past curfew, he was ready to call in the Coast Guard.”

“I didn’t know you had a brother,” says Bucky, passing the joint back.

“He died when I was twelve.”

“I’m sorry,” says Bucky.

“He was a musician. He died doing what he loved most in the world. That’s probably more than I’ll be able to say.”

“More than most of us, I bet.”

“What happened to him?”

The moon reflects in Gabe’s eyes. He takes a drag and exhales a plume of silver smoke.

“He used to play violin on the street corner after work. People would stop to watch, throw coins and bills into his violin case. He was really good, and some days he made a lot. Then one day, well.”

Gabe pauses, eyes on the moon.

“One night, a couple of thugs followed him into the alley on his way home and tried to mug him. He fought back, and they shot him and left him for dead. ”

“That’s awful. I’m sorry, Gabe.”

“It was a long time ago. That was back when things were really bad. The neighborhood’s not as rough now as it used to be.”

“Yeah,” says Bucky, thinking of home. “Things are changing all over the city.”

“I think Harry would’ve been happy to see it. And sometimes I’m glad he didn’t have to go to war. He wasn’t cut out for this shit. It would’ve messed him up.”

“I never wanted Steve to go either,” says Bucky. “He’s too goddamn reckless to be a soldier.”

“At least now he’s semi-bulletproof.”

“He thinks he is, anyway.”

Gabe smiles. “He told me once that you always protected him growing up.”

“I had to. He mouthed off to every asshole that looked sideways at him. He had a chip on his shoulder the size of Texas.” Bucky chuckles. “My god, the fights we used to get into.”

“Against other people, or each other?”

“Both.”

Gabe laughs. “I guess not much has changed.”

“Nope,” Bucky admits. “Except now we got guns.”

“And heavy artillery.”

Gabe passes the joint to Bucky. It’s filling his head with a gentle fuzz, blurring the sharp points of his poisonous feelings into something more bearable. The view becomes softer around the edges, impossibly lovely.

“What’s the first thing you’ll do after the war?”

Bucky thinks about it.

“Go down to Al’s for a pastrami sandwich and a big piece of apple pie. That’s what I used to do every other Friday after work. Never knew how much I’d miss it.”

“You should come to Queens,” says Gabe. “I’ll make you the best pastrami sandwich of your life.”

“Gabe, all due respect, but I’m a very loyal customer.”

“You think that now,” says Gabe. “Just wait ‘til you eat at my daddy’s diner. Your loyalties will shift.”

“We’ll see. What will you do?”

“Hug my mom. Then I’m taking the train to Coney Island. Get a chocolate ice cream cone and just sit on the beach. Watch the clouds go by.”

“You should bring Steve,” says Bucky. “He loves Coney Island. Take him on the Cyclone, it’s his favorite.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“We rode the train up when he turned sixteen. He ate three hot dogs in line for the ride and then puked his guts out. It was awesome.” He smiles, staring into the inky black sky, remembering. “I guess he was a lot smaller then. He’d probably be alright now.”

“It’s hard to imagine him being small,” says Gabe, stretching out his long legs.

“Just imagine him exactly the way he is now, except like – one-third the size. His tiny body could barely contain all that attitude.”

Gabe bursts out laughing, and so does Bucky. It feels good as hell. Suddenly he can hear the whoops and shouts of people on the street more clearly. The very air seems saturated with joy.

Bucky opens his mouth, hesitates, and then says it anyway.

“Thanks for coming to find me.”

Gabe smiles, a big genuine grin.

“Got your back, Sarge.”

He pauses.

“I guess I been a little worried about you too. You doing alright, Bucky?”

“Hm,” says Bucky.

Maybe it’s the joint, or the moon, or Gabe’s big gentle eyes on him, or the magic in the air loosening his lips. Before he can help it, he blurts out, “I think there’s something wrong with me.”

“What do you mean?”

“I dunno,” he mutters, eyes on his lap. “It’s dumb. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“It’s not dumb. You can tell me.”

“I just – since Italy, my head’s all fucked up. Sometimes I don’t know if I’m asleep or awake. I don’t know what’s real sometimes.”

Gabe’s quiet for a minute.

“Like you think sometimes you might be dreaming?”

“Yeah, exactly. Do you ever feel like that?”

“Sometimes,” says Gabe, eyes on the river.

“Nightmares?”

“Almost every night.”

“This is really fucking us up, ain’t it,” says Bucky, shaking his head.

Gabe chuckles.

“I was already fucked up when I got here.”

“So was I,” Bucky admits. “I got some bad secrets.”

“Me, too.”

Bucky takes a last drag, then pitches the burnt-down stub of paper over the wrought-iron fence. His heart pounds hard like he’s about to do something stupid. But he can’t stop himself from opening his mouth again.

“What would you do if you loved somebody you could never be with?”

Gabe doesn’t answer, watching Bucky in the moonlight. Bucky can’t meet his eyes. The words are backed up in his throat all the way down to his guts, pushing against his ribs from the inside.

“And you thought maybe you’d grow out of it, or forget about it, but it never went away? It just got stronger and stronger, like some kind of curse?”

He can’t stop the words now. They’re sloshing out of his mouth like water over the side of a sinking raft, overtaking him. He’s afraid to look at Gabe.

“What if you did terrible things for it? Lied, and stole, and – worse? What if your whole goddamn _life_ was a lie, and nobody knew the truth about what you really are?”

Gabe finally manages to catch his eyes, dark and concerned.

“What are you?”

“A mistake,” says Bucky, clenching his fists together. “A monster.”

Gabe wraps an arm around him. Bucky stiffens up. They shouldn’t be sitting like this in public. It isn’t right. Somebody might see.

But there’s nobody around, and after a few seconds, he relaxes.

“You’re no monster,” says Gabe quietly. “I’ll tell you what you are, Buck. You’re strong, and brave, and a fuckin’ unbelievable shot. You saved my ass more times than there are stars in that sky right there. You’re a goddamn hero.”

“Stop,” Bucky whispers. He’s said way, way too much. His heart thunders like a runaway train.

“And you know what’s even better about you? You’re sweet as honey. You treat everybody the same, and you always got a kind word for ‘em. You’re the best kind of person, Bucky. You’re a good man. Anybody would be lucky to have your love.”

“I don’t know about that.”

“I do,” says Jones, “and I know eight guys a few blocks away who would agree wholeheartedly.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Look, this girl you love – the one you can’t be with – I’m sorry about that, Buck. It sounds real rough. But we all do dumb things for love. We all do things we regret. That doesn’t make you some kind of monster.”

Bucky swallows, dizzy. _Don’t say it. Don’t—_

“Ain’t no girl,” he whispers.

Jones doesn’t say anything for a moment. Then he gives Bucky another hard squeeze and lets him go.

“So what? I meant what I said.”

“That really don’t matter to you?”

“Of course not. You’re my friend. Why should I give a shit who you love?”

Bucky feels wild, unreal, like he’s waking up in the middle of a dream. He wants to jump in the river. He wants to dance down the street singing with everyone else.  

“Thanks,” he says instead, keeping the wobble out of his voice. “For everything.”

“Anytime, man.”

They sit in silence for a few minutes, watching the ripples of the water, listening to the snatches of music and laughter.

“Shall we go make sure Izzy hasn’t drunk himself into a coma?”

“I suppose we should,” says Bucky.

They head down the dark street together, and for once, Bucky doesn’t feel the need to look over his shoulder.

 

*

 

The Commandos take down the second largest HYDRA base in mid-October in a hard flurry of surprise explosives and missed opportunities. Toward the end of the fight, Bucky found himself pinned down with nowhere to go. He would’ve caught a bullet if it weren’t for Steve. They barely escape with their lives.

But they do escape, and the base is neutralized, and once again they’re young and alive in the warm autumn sunshine. Dugan “liberated” a large bottle of German whisky from the base before they blew it up, and the boys pass it back and forth as they set up camp, joking and swearing at each other.

Bucky hangs back, cleaning his rifle. He’s trying to calm down, but it isn’t working.

“Come on, let’s go down to the river and catch some fish,” says Dino, pulling off his grimy shirt. “We’re eatin’ good tonight, boys.”

“Good idea,” says Steve. “Bucky and I’ll get some wood for a fire.”

Usually they’re the firewood A-team, since Bucky’s good at finding things and Steve can carry inhumanly large amounts of it. But he can’t concentrate. He follows Steve into a grove of apple trees.

“That was some fight, huh?” Steve whistles. “What a day.”

“You’re something else, Steve Rogers,” Bucky snaps.

“Huh? What’s wrong?”

“You know damn well what’s wrong.”

“Are you still mad about earlier?”

“Yeah, I’m still mad. What the fuck were you thinking?”

There’s soot smudged on Steve’s cheek. His left arm is in a sling, but they both know it won’t be for long.

“You weren’t,” Bucky answers for him, furious. “You could’ve gotten yourself killed.”

“But I’m fine,” Steve says reasonably, like Bucky’s the crazy one.

“You ain’t fine! You got shot!”

“Hey, you said it yourself. This is a war. That’s what happens.”

Bucky throws his hands up.

“You try to take another goddamn bullet for me, and I’ll kill you myself.”

Steve snorts a laugh.

“Doesn’t that defeat the purpose?”

“You’re unbelievable. You grow a foot and suddenly you think you’re fuckin’ bulletproof.”

“I don’t think that.”

“Then what’s the big idea?”

“Saving your ass, jerk. What do you want me to do, apologize?”

“I want you to quit tryin’ to die for me all the time.”

They’re eye to eye in the growing shadows. From over the hill, Bucky hears snatches of half-drunk, animated hollering down by the river. Rebel’s harmonica rises above the shouts, a single wailing note spiraling up and up. Steve’s not laughing anymore.

“I’m not trying to die. But I gotta do what I think is right.”

Bucky digs his nails into his palms, trying to concentrate. He’s paralyzed with rage, heartbreak, dread and terrifying, hopeless love. Since the lab, he’s either felt too much or nothing at all. Right now, it’s more than he can handle.

“Come on, you can’t stay mad forever.”

“Steve, just promise me something.”

“What?”

Bucky takes a deep breath.

“You got more riding on this than I do. If it happens again, whether it’s tomorrow, or next year, or whenever – you gotta let me go.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You know what I’m talking about. This is dangerous, and anything could happen. So if it’s getting dicey, or I go down – don’t fuckin’ follow me again.”

“Shut the hell up,” says Steve, strained.

“No, listen to me. First you storm that base in Italy all by yourself like you’re fuckin’ invincible, then that bullshit with the bomb in Grenoble, and now today – you can’t keep doing this, Steve. Your luck is gonna run out. And if you get yourself blown up for me, then who’s Carter gonna marry?”

Steve grabs him by the shoulder, voice low and fierce.

“Quit talking like that.” He sounds like Bucky’s ma. “Neither of us are getting blown up. We’re going home together, and that’s that.”

“No, we ain’t,” says Bucky, tired and reckless.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Steve, you got a good life ahead of you. Don’t fuck it up.”

“And you don’t?”

Bucky doesn’t answer.

“Goddammit, Bucky, I’m sick of this. What the hell is going on with you?”

There’s a tension rising in the air, the threat of something big lurking just beyond the horizon. It’s heavy, slow as the shift of tectonic plates, a rumbling in the deepest parts of the Earth that haven’t moved in a million years. Bucky’s ma always said you could feel it in your bones when the good Lord started crooking his finger toward you.

“Nothing,” says Bucky uneasily. He drops his gaze. “You gotta promise.”

When Steve gets mad, all the Brooklyn starts hanging out of his voice. Bucky wants to cry.

“I ain’t making no promises until you tell me what the _fuck_ is going on. You been hiding shit from me for years now. You think I’m stupid? You think I can’t tell when you’re lying?”

“I don’t think you’re stupid. Steve, quit it.”

“No,” says Steve, fixing Bucky with a hard look. “I’m sick to hell of your secrets, Bucky Barnes.”

“Because you never kept any from me, right?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“How many times did you try to enlist behind my back? Then as soon as I’m gone, you let some mad scientists pump you full of radiation just to get what you want? You could’ve _died_.”

“What was I supposed to do, ask for permission? You never understood why I had to—”

“You didn’t _have_ to do anything.  You never knew when to back down and it’s gonna get you killed. You’re reckless, you don’t think about consequences, and—”

Steve makes dark, deadly eye contact.

“Oh, _I’m_ reckless? I’m the one who doesn’t think about consequences? In that case, why don’t you finally tell me where all that money came from?”

“Steve—“

“No more lies. Why don’t you tell me where you used to go ‘til three in the morning, when you’d come limping home like you got in a fight?”

“Whatever I did, I did it for _you_ ,” Bucky spits out, nails digging bloody crescents into his palms.

“How the fuck do you think I felt waiting up all those nights, wondering if you were dead in the street? How do you think I felt coming over here and finding out that you were –“

His voice breaks, and then comes out softer.

“I did this for you, too. Don’t you know that?”

“Then do this for me,” Bucky says stubbornly. “Promise me. It’s important.”

Steve has a complicated look on his face, like he can’t decide whether or not to start yelling. His brow furrows.

Then he wraps Bucky in a tight, full-armed hug.

“Goddammit,” he mutters into Bucky’s hair. “I can’t. You always been the one looking out for me, and now it’s my turn. Wherever you go, you know I’m going with you.”

They’re forehead to forehead, sharing each breath. Bucky might explode on the spot, no grenade necessary.

“For the love of God, Steve,” he says, strained. “Don’t be dumb.”

“I’d dead ten times over without you. I wouldn’t have made it to eighteen.”

“So what? That was before. Now you got Carter and a nice little brownstone in Queens waiting for you. That’s a fine life.”

Steve pulls back, annoyed.

“What do you know about the life I want? You always think you know everything.”

“Quit being a punk and listen to me for once,” Bucky snaps.

“No, you listen to _me_ for once,” Steve snaps back. “How do you know what I want? Or what I _need_?”

“I think you need to quit acting like you’re goddamn Superman and think about what you’re putting on the line.”

“There’s plenty you don’t know about me.”

“Oh Christ, Steve. I’ve known you your whole life.”

“ _Plenty_.”

“Tell me, then,” says Bucky. He feels like a livewire, a raw nerve ending. None of this seems real, and yet it’s the most painfully, achingly alive he’s felt in months.

Steve’s eyes bore into his, dark and angry. The sunset turns his hair a vivid burnt orange. He’s gorgeous like this, an avenging angel, and it makes Bucky ache in the deepest part of his heart. Some men have destinies, and Bucky’s known for a long time that Steve must be one of them.

“You got a lot more to give the world,” Bucky says softly, when Steve still hasn’t spoken. “This is bigger than you and me.”

“No, it ain’t,” Steve hisses fiercely.

“You’re a real piece of work, Steve Rogers.”

Steve looks like he wants to knock Bucky’s lights out. They glare at each other. Steve’s breathing hard, like a bull about to charge. Just hit me, Bucky thinks. It’ll come as a relief.

Instead, Steve grabs him by the collar and kisses him.

It’s hard, clumsy and sweet, and as shocking as getting shot all over again. Bucky grips his upper arms instinctively. They stumble backwards against a tree, mouths crashing together, skin on skin, stepping on each other’s feet.

Steve presses hard with his hips, his strong fingers, filling all of Bucky’s senses with white-hot electric static. They tussle for a few seconds in the shadows, grabbing hands, sharp teeth, and searing, wet heat. Bucky’s drowning in the warmth of Steve’s skin under his fingers, the maddening rasp of stubble, the soft short hairs on the back of his neck. Steve’s hands cup his face, holding him close.

Bucky whimpers into his mouth, swept away in the deadly riptide. He’s wanted this for so long that it doesn’t even feel real.

“Shit,” says Steve softly against his mouth, pulling back to stare at Bucky with big, bewildered eyes.

All Bucky can do is breathe, big gasping gulps of air. His body feels too small for the swell of emotion rising through his chest. The world has gone lopsided, off-kilter in the dusky sunset, like a warship taking on water. Bucky must be dreaming, or maybe he really did die on that table after all.

“Stevie,” he breathes out.

Steve thumbs across Bucky’s lower lip, down the dip in his chin. Their foreheads drop together again. Bucky clings to Steve like he’s about to fall down a million miles.

“I’m sorry,” Steve whispers, voice wet. “I don’t know why I did that.”

Bucky’s throat goes hot like he’s going to cry. He wants to pull Steve’s big hand up to his mouth and kiss each one of his fingertips. He wants to live forever in this soft shadow-moment, too unearthly and sweet to be anything but a daydream.

“It’s okay,” he whispers back.

“Bucky—“

Someone shouts from camp, “Hey, where the hell’s that firewood? We got a fish to fry!”

“Be fuckin’ patient,” Bucky yells back reflexively. His voice sounds wrong, the voice of a stranger.

Steve pulls back, brow furrowed, eyes damp and disoriented. The magic thread is broken. They’re back in reality, just two exhausted soldiers in a Belgian apple grove with dirty hair and soot on their faces.

“I’m sorry, Buck. I didn’t mean to –“

“I know. It’s okay.”

“I ain’t – it wasn’t –“

“I _know_ ,” says Bucky, too sharp. “I get it.”

“Okay,” says Steve, dropping his gaze.

They gather kindling in silence. Bucky hacks a few branches off of a fallen tree. It’s getting dark, and they need to hurry, but Bucky feels like he’s moving through molasses. His brain buzzes a million miles an hour.

“Buck,” says Steve, when Bucky hands him an armful of split logs. “Can’t we talk?”

Steve’s jaw is set but his eyes are raw and vulnerable.

“What’s there to talk about?”

“Bucky, come on. Don’t bullshit me right now.”

Bucky drops his gaze.

“What difference does it make? You said it yourself. You don’t know why you did that. It didn’t mean a thing.”

Steve jerks his chin up.

“What if it did?”

“What?” Bucky’s head flies up. “What did it mean?”

“Everything,” Steve bites out. “Bucky, you got no idea.”

“Steve—“

“Did it mean something to you? Tell the truth.”

Bucky swallows, dizzy.

“That don’t matter. We can’t – you and Carter, that’s the future. You know it, I know it. Whatever happened here’s just gotta stay here.”

“No, I don’t accept that,” says Steve fiercely. “If it meant something to you, then it matters.”

Something’s happening in his chest, a buoyant ball of light tugging up through the layers of dread and death.

“It matters,” Steve repeats. His eyes catch Bucky’s and they stare at each other, mesmerized.

Bucky drops his gaze first.

“Come on. Let’s get this wood to camp before they send out a search party. We can talk about this later.”

Bucky can hardly breathe as they walk out of the forest. After all this time, could it really be possible that Steve might –

“Cap! Hey, Cap!”

Morita’s signaling to them as they troop out of the forest.

“What happened?”

“Get down here! You’re not gonna believe this!”

They jog the rest of the way. Steve drops the wood in a pile, and Bucky kneels down behind him in the dirt, methodically piling it up into a campfire.

“We just decoded a message—”

“We? _I_ decoded it, these jokers just sat around drinking—“

“Shut up, Izzy, this is important.”

“Cap, we just got so fuckin’ lucky.”

“We know where Zola is. Or at least, we know where he’s going to be.”

Steve’s eyes go narrow and hard.

“What did it say, exactly?”

Bucky’s stomach drops out. He focuses on the wood, but his vision goes a little swimmy. Through the static in his brain, he hears the doctor’s oily voice, feels the horror of his soft pink fingers. _Wouldn’t you say I am doing a good job?_

“—so we’ll probably have to intercept the train before it gets there. What do you think, Cap?”

“That’s fifty miles from here,” says Steve. “So we have, what – 36 hours?”

“Maybe less. The pass could be blocked with snow already. We might have to find a way around it.”

“It’s just like last spring. Remember when we found that alternate passage in the Alps? With the trucks, it’s not impossible. We could always –“

Bucky’s hands work on autopilot, stuffing kindling into the space he’s created beneath the logs.

“If we do this, it means we’ll have to leave at first light,” says Steve. “This could be our only chance to take him.”

“ _If_ we do this? Cap, this is exactly what we’ve been waiting for.”

“It’s our best bet,” Steve agrees.

“Can’t wait to get my hands on that little shithead,” says Manelli gleefully. “It’s payback time, baby.”

He’s wringing out his shirt, wet pants rolled up past his calves. The fish they caught is on a tarp next to Dugan, a real whopper of a rainbow trout. It must weigh fifteen pounds. Manelli sees Bucky looking at it and breaks into a grin.

“A beauty, right? It was like wrestling a goddamn alligator.”

“You ain’t wrestled no alligators,” says Bucky automatically, fanning the flames of his burgeoning campfire.

Something in the fish’s dead, glistening stare unnerves him. He stares at it for a few seconds, hypnotized. The slimy black dot of its pupil gets wider and wider, opening up like a dark mouth. Bucky’s seized with the sudden bone-deep dread that someone’s watching him from the other side. Waiting for him.

_He’s survived much longer than the others—_

He tears his gaze away, shaking, and blows on the fire again. Flames lick up through the logs, and he sits back. His hands tremble. What’s wrong with him?

Steve and Morita have their heads together, talking in low voices. The cheerful chatter of the Commandos around him seems to come from a hundred miles away. It all feels as unreal as the scar on his stomach.

Jones drops down next to him in the dirt.

“Here,” he says, handing Bucky the half-drunk whiskey bottle. “You look like you could use some of this.”

“Thanks,” he says, keeping his voice steady.

“You good?”

“I’m not sure.”

He tips up the bottle and takes a generous swig.

“Well, we ain’t dead yet,” says Gabe with a grin.

It’s their usual toast, but something about it sticks in Bucky’s gut tonight, sending uneasiness spiraling up his spine, pooling in the back of his skull.

“No we ain’t,” he says, taking another swig. It goes down like water. He can’t even feel it.

Steve catches his eye from across the fire and smiles. Bucky would, and has, killed for that smile. He wonders if he’s going to hell. It occurs to him that he’s already been there.

“Who’s gonna cook this fuckin’ fish?”

“I nominate Dino. He never cooks.”

“Hey, haven’t I suffered enough? That fucker nearly drowned me.”

“I’ll do it,” says Steve, and a cacophony of groans goes up.

“No offense, Cap, but we actually want to eat it.”

“Oh, I’ll do it,” grumbles Dugan. “But somebody better set up my tent for me while I do.”

Bucky tries to relax, smoking a cigarette with his elbows on his knees. He watches Dugan pile meat in the big metal frying pan, laying it over the fire. Everything is fine. Situation normal. But he can’t shake the feeling – however irrational – that something’s coming for him.

After a few minutes, Steve comes over and sits next to him.

“This is big, Buck,” he says quietly. “If we can get him alive – it could change everything.”

“We’ll get him,” says Bucky with a lot more bravado than he feels.

“Hope you’re right.”

The moon rises over the hills, a thin white smile in the black sky. Steve dips his head toward Bucky’s, pitching his voice low.

“After this mission, when we’re back at HQ, let’s – sit down. Talk about things.”

“Alright. But you still gotta promise.”

He looks sideways at Steve. Steve gives him a hard look back.

Then he nods, and Bucky breathes a sigh of relief.

“Thank you.”

“You better not make me keep that,” Steve says darkly.

“I don’t intend to,” says Bucky, pitching his cigarette butt into the fire. “But you never know what’s gonna happen.”

Dugan smacks the frying pan with his big wooden spatula a few times.

“Chef’s special,” he announces, as the squad gathers around the fire. “Fried trout with stewed tomatoes. Get it while it’s hot, boys.”

“That better taste nicer than it looks,” grumbles Dino.

“I’ll eat yours if you don’t want it.”

“Did I say I didn’t want it?”

“Mine still has the scales on it!”

“Quit whining and eat it, Cohen,” says Jones, in a frighteningly accurate impression of Dugan.

“Fish scales are good for your skin. My mam always said that.”

“Bullshit. She was just too lazy to scrape em off, same as Dum Dum.”

“Don’t you fuckin’ talk about my mam that way! That woman is a saint!”

“Foxy, too, from what I’ve heard.”

“That’s enough about Rebel’s mam,” says Steve, but he’s laughing too. “Eat up, fellas, and then it’s lights out. We got an early train to catch.”

Bucky watches Rebel and Izzy squabble over the last piece of trout, strangely sentimental, wishing he could stretch this moment out forever. He sees the dead eye staring into him, and the little window with the stars, and the pillar of smoke, and the look on Steve’s face just before they kissed.

“You alright, Buck?”

“Ain’t dead yet,” he says, and smiles. 

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few things:
> 
> \- I tried my best to make this as historically accurate as possible. However, that said, I am a lazy boy who rarely cross-references and barely got a C+ in APUSH so WHO KNOWS. 
> 
> \- The song Steve's referring to in the campfire scene is called "But Not For Me" and was originally written by George Gershwin in 1930 for a musical starring Judy Garland called GIRL CRAZY (lol). I imagine Bucky probably heard the Bing Crosby version which was recorded in the late 30s (i...think....?)
> 
> \- Many of the Howling Commandos in this story actually belonged canonically to Nick Fury, but they're the best and uhhh i do what i want
> 
> \- This story has two (??) more parts, but I'm gonna post them as a separate work since they're set in the present day, and I feel like these two chapters are pretty self-contained. 
> 
> \- THANKS AGAIN FOR READING ILU and feel free to come talk to me (or yell at me, whatever you're into) on [tumblr](http://kate-lusive.tumblr.com) !!


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